Discipline
by Brighid45
Summary: Not a part of the Treatment 'verse! This is a stand-alone story. On a referral from Nolan, House visits a dominatrix for therapy. Post-'Broken', AU to canon but with some canon events included. OC romance, sex, humor and angst. epilogue now posted. Please read and review, thanks!
1. Chapter 1

**_(Author's Note: __this is _not_ part of the Treatment storyline. It's a fic I started 3 years ago, just something written on the side for my amusement. I published 6 chapters of the original version on LJ, but never finished it. This is the revised, edited and final version._**

**Discipline_ starts some months after the S6 episode 'Broken'. It is generally AU to canon. That means House hasn't moved in with Wilson, nor does he have an affair with Cuddy. However, the crane disaster is included, because it's my story and I'll write what I want to, write what I want to, write what I want to. (Apologies to Leslie Gore.) _**

**_This story is rated Mature because it contains bondage and sex scenes. By my standards this is very vanilla stuff, but it might offend some people. So,_ BE WARNED:_ sex and leather ahead! If you don't like that kind of thing, DON'T READ IT. Any reviews complaining about content will just prove to me that no one reads these forewords._**

**_Here we go. Hope you like it. I'll be posting more chapters on Mondays, with the occasional extra chapter on Thursdays, through my 'vacation'. The Treatment 'verse stories will start again in September. -Brig)_**

_February 19th, 2010_

"You may enter."

He moves into the room, acutely aware of his surroundings even though the lighting is dim, filled with shadows. He cannot see the woman who is speaking but her clear voice is graced with the faintest trace of an accent—French, he thinks; not sure though. He's having trouble concentrating.

"Of course I received a referral from Doctor Nolan for you, but I like to have a good idea why people come to me. If you're able, I'd also like you to tell me in your own words why you're here."

He stands mute, unable to reply. His rational mind is ordering him to leave. _This is a mistake. You'll only stir up things best left alone. There's no logic in this action . . . . leave now. _But for once he cannot rely on logic. He _must_ stay; he quite literally has no other choice.

_("Doctor Gardener's methods may be . . . unorthodox, but her results are extraordinary." Nolan sat back and regarded House with a steady eye. His mild amusement was evident in his faint smile. "I thought you'd appreciate that fact."_

_House snorted. "She's a dominatrix using a doctorate to charge a higher hourly rate. Why would I be impressed by her attempt to benefit from some clueless dickwad's idiocy?"_

_Nolan raised his brows. "She's more than she seems."_

_House glared at him. "Personal experience speaking?"_

"_I've never been a patient of hers, no. Nor a client. But if I needed her services, I'd use them." Nolan's tone was reasonable, but inexorable. "You have my recommendation. I've gone as far as I can to help you, but you require another set of skills here, and we both know the usual routine won't work for you. I think Doctor Gardener's methods . . . just might.")_

His musings are disturbed by the woman's soft sigh. "Very well. Go to the stage."

He steps up onto the modest platform, stumbling a little despite the cane, wincing as his ruined leg gives a warning spasm.

"Are you all right?" He nods, though it's not true. "Stand still. I want to look at you. No," that quiet voice says when he starts to bow his head. "Eyes forward, head up."

It is excruciating, knowing he is being examined. He stares into the darkness, doing his best not to fidget. This is bringing back a lot of bad memories he'd hoped were lost for good in the dusty recesses of his brain. Not much chance of that happening now, though.

"Do you need a stool?" There is genuine concern in her voice. It grates on him. He shakes his head.

"All right. We'll proceed, then. Remove your clothing."

He has been dreading this moment, though he's known it was coming since he read the paperwork forwarded by Nolan a few weeks back. Anyway, he'd signed the release forms . . . he can't pretend he doesn't have some idea of what's ahead. Slowly he takes off his scarf and pea coat and looks around for a place to hang them, hating the sense of inadequacy engendered by his ignorance of procedure.

"You can put everything on the chair." The faint amusement in the woman's voice makes him grit his teeth. He drapes the items on the back of the wooden chair sitting next to the steps, leans the cane against it as well, straightens and with great reluctance, begins to remove his jacket.

It takes a while to get there, but eventually he's down to his briefs. He usually doesn't wear them but for some bizarre reason he'd wanted to make a good impression-a ludicrous impulse on his part. Still, he's glad for their presence, as ephemeral as they may be in relative terms; it's an extra step between coverage and total nudity.

"Finish it," the woman says. "Underwear counts as clothing too."

He can stop this. All he has to do is grab his stuff, throw everything back on and walk out the door, with nothing worse than a temporary sense of embarrassment; it's not too late. He takes a breath, grabs what's left of his resolve, hooks his thumbs under the waistband and drops the briefs, nudging them toward the pile of clothes. It's done; he's naked. Humiliation burns at the back of his throat.

"Very good. Stand straight, hands at your sides."

He does as she tells him, staring out into the darkness, ignoring the considerable discomfort this posture causes. The shadows are so deep he can't tell where she's sitting.

"That's quite a scar on your thigh." Her tone is neutral, assessing. "You have more on your belly and neck as well. Looks like you've had an interesting life."

He can't help a slight, bitter smile at her words. _If only you knew the truth_, he thinks. _If only you could see the _real_ scars._

"Turn around."

He obeys and finds he is facing two polished wooden four-by-fours fitted together in an X shape—a Saint Andrew's cross, he knows the terms for the equipment. There are leather restraints at both ends. The sight of them makes his mouth go dry. Of course he'd seen all this when he came in, but now it's up close and personal—very different from viewing at a distance. He can't help but tense in apprehension, and jumps as the woman speaks from only a few feet away. He hadn't heard her approach. Of course he knows all this is in aid of her assessing his mental state, but it's still making his anxiety rise, and he's struggling not to bolt out the door in his birthday suit, fire up the car and flee to Princeton.

"Walk forward until you're a few inches from the form. With your permission, I'm going to put the cuffs on your wrists and ankles. You show your assent by raising your arms."

With reluctance he does as she tells him, limping those few last steps and lifting his hands in what looks like an incongruous gesture of praise—and then it happens, the thing he's been dreading since he entered this shadowed room. Small hands reach up to fasten his right wrist into the thick leather cuff dangling from the form, and they touch his skin. His reaction is immediate. He pulls away, blind terror taking over as he struggles to escape. When something brushes his arm he hits at it, white noise filling his mind.

"_Doctor House._" The woman's voice is very close, clear and firm. "Doctor House, it's all right." The sound of his title and name pulls him out of his panic, at least for a moment. He stops fighting and forces himself to take a deep shuddering breath, hunches his shoulders and ducks his head, waiting for her to start bitching him out. Instead she comes up and holds him from behind in an impersonal, steady embrace. It feels like she's wearing some kind of silk robe and not much else; under any other circumstance he'd be distracted, but right now it doesn't matter. At first he feels trapped and fights the nearly overwhelming urge to break free, but gradually the terror eases, transmutes into something else . . . an odd, tentative feeling of security. The warm pressure against his back and sides feels good, reassuring.

"Better?" After a few moments he nods. "Darryl's notes indicate you've been having trouble with being out in public, but there's just a mention or two about possible fear of being touched, and only in passing. How long have you been afraid to let people touch you?"

It takes a while to remember; it seems like forever. "Three months." He'd always had trouble with the kind of casual hugs or pats on the back everyone else exchanges without thinking, but since he left Mayfield he can't bear to have a stranger brush against him. It's made work even more of a living hell than it was before. Riding an elevator can induce a panic attack if it's crowded enough, but because of his leg he has no choice—he can't use the stairs without ending up in the ER or at home for a week, with elevated pain levels and endless muscle spasms that even hot baths and bourbon can't stop. So it's a tossup between humiliating himself in public, and . . . humiliating himself in public. Only the methods differ.

"So you came here thinking I would just flog this problem out of you, as if it's some kind of bad habit or personal flaw?" She sounds a little impatient now. He cringes away from her irritation. "I won't do that. What I _will_ do is help you, if you'll let me." She pauses. "What happens in session is always consensual, there's no coercion. That means we use a safe word. You say that word, everything stops, no exceptions. Let's make it 'baker'." Slowly she releases him. "Now, shall I continue?"

It takes every ounce of courage he possesses to nod yes, but he manages it at last.

"Well done." Her soft voice sounds pleased and, though he can hardly credit it, proud. "Very well done."

As she places his wrists in the leather cuffs he can feel the restraints are padded and soft. They don't keep him immobile as much as hold him in place. The thought eases his panic, until his legs are moved apart and his ankles receive the same treatment. The fear returns, amplified into near terror.

"It's all right." She rests her hand on the small of his back. It is a curiously comforting gesture, as reassuring as the embrace she'd used to calm him; her palm is warm, her slender fingers light, gentle. "Remember, you have a safe word. You say it, everything stops immediately. What's the word?"

" . . . baker," he says finally.

"Correct. How's your leg?" He dips his head, incapable of telling her it hurts like hell. It doesn't really matter anyway, it always hurts like hell. "All right. I'm going to begin our session now. Remember that you can stop this at any time."

She moves away for a moment. He hears a soft rustle-the sound of a garment being removed, he realizes. Her hand cups his right buttock, slides over the curve and up to the spring of his ribs. He endures it, his trembling slowly decreasing as he begins to learn the feel of her slight fingers and smooth palm. She is gentle without being too careful, her touch confident and respectful. He swallows, focusing on her movements, and realizes she is speaking.

"I do love a tall man," she is saying. "You're all leg, and those big feet . . . really beautiful."

He says nothing, unable to tell if she's joking. _Since when are chicken legs and big feet __beautiful__?_ He's always been on the skinny side, which never bothered him that much—his body was just a means to an end, a way to find release, escape reality, exist in a world of his own making through strenuous physical exertion. Now it's nothing but a trap. He'll never see anything beautiful in that. He knows the human form has its own grace; he's admired it in others, studied the construction of bone and sinew, muscle and tendon, the drape and fold of skin, the curve of a breast or hip . . . but for himself, there is nothing but pain, and the ugly gully in his thigh that changed everything in one remorseless moment of time.

She's moved higher now, her fingertips tracing short little paths across his shoulders and upper back. "You have punishment marks." She sounds detached, impersonal. "Who gave them to you?"

_Dad_, he thinks but doesn't say aloud. Revulsion fills him at the memory of endless sessions with the belt. He can't help but tug at his bonds.

"Shhh . . ." She rubs his back, a light, soothing stroke. He calms a little, still poised for flight. When her lips touch his right shoulder he jumps. "I won't hurt you." Her breath warms his skin. After a moment something is held up in front of his face. "Can you see this?"

He nods, his eyes widening. A hard shudder goes through him as memory blooms.

_("Know what this is? That's right, it's my belt. It does a lot more than hold up my pants, boy. It teaches little snot-nosed punks like you the difference between right and wrong. Let me demonstrate.")_

_No . . . oh no. _He is shaking now. His heart is pounding in his chest. _No . . . please no. _

"What is it? Tell me."

He tries to and coughs, his throat so dry the word won't emerge. The object disappears; he feels the woman walk away, and readies himself for what's to come. After a moment she touches his face. He pulls away, fear taking over.

"Shhhh . . ." He hears liquid being poured out before the rim of a glass presses gently against his bottom lip. "It's water."

He gulps it down, grateful for the way it eases the dryness in his throat and shocks him back into something resembling normalcy. When it's taken away he rests his forehead on his arm, shaking. _Can't do this_, he thinks. _Can't_. But he won't bring himself to say the words, to tell this woman "I want out".

"What did I show you?" Her voice is calm but inexorable; she'll keep asking until he tells her.

"Flogger," he croaks.

"Correct," she says. "When you speak to me you will call me 'my lady'. Now close your eyes." There is another rustling sound. Fabric settles over his lids, around his head . . . a blindfold. Thick folds drape over his shoulders a bit. It feels like silk, soft and smelling faintly of lavender, clean and sharp.

"Deprived of sight, the mind heightens all other senses." Leather strips trail over his skin. He can't help a groan; he is trembling from head to foot now, his fear become so large he can't contain it. "We can use that to your advantage, if you're willing."

"_Please_," he whispers, hating the halting tremor in his voice, "please don't . . ."

"I won't," she says. "Let me show you what I mean."

Slowly she explores him, using the flogger to stroke and caress him, and everywhere the leather goes she leaves kisses in its wake. Her free hand caresses him, her slender fingers kneading the tension out of his muscles, bringing blood to the surface. Gradually he begins to realize she's being faithful to her promise; she hasn't hurt him. His fear recedes a bit, revealing a faint sense of relief.

After a time she says "I'm going to give you a light swat on the right cheek." Her hand squeezes his buttock gently. "You have such a nice ass," she says on a soft chuckle. When the blow comes it is barely more than a pat, the strips brushing him. She continues this pattern over his backside until he is tingling and half-erect. He tenses when something cool and solid is fastened around the shaft of his penis, just below the head. It's a ring, light but definitely substantial enough to make its presence known.

"I want you to wait for me," she whispers. "Concentrate on keeping the ring from falling off."

He tries to do as she asks, struggling to switch his attention back and forth from what she's doing to him, to maintaining his erection. The blows from the flogger increase slightly in intensity, but they are still not enough to cause more than a sort of electric flush; there is no pain. She continues to caress and stroke, and he feels a loosening deep inside, an unclenching that relieves the hard knot in his gut that's been there for months now. Even the ache in his leg lessens a bit. After a time he begins to anticipate the rhythm of the soft swats and arches his back as his erection grows. The ring tightens a little but it's not uncomfortable.

"How's your leg?" She kisses the nape of his neck.

"All right, m'lady," he says, breathless at the feel of her full breasts pressed to him, her body just within reach and yet completely inaccessible. It's a situation that should have him freaking out hard enough to earn him sedation, and he's not sure what to make of it. Still, those are lovely perky _breasts_ resting against his back, and a thatch of soft curls with warm wet labia beneath, brushing his ass . . . not exactly a bad thing, all in all. His erection agrees with him by increasing at the knowledge, so that he has to fight not to groan aloud.

"Good for a little longer?"

"Yes, m'lady."

"Excellent." She moves away and the loss of her presence makes him anxious. The flogger strokes his left butt-cheek. He stiffens and her hand caresses his shoulder. "Let's try a slightly harder strike," she whispers. "No pain."

The first blow is enough to make him cringe, but it's more sound than anything else; all he cares about is that it doesn't hurt. She works his cheeks, moves down to his thighs. When the thongs gently slap the underside of his ass he gives a low moan, assaulted by an amazing array of feelings—her touch sending jolts of sweetness into his brain, his erection and balls throbbing, the hard, delicious jangle of overstimulated nerve endings, blood flow increasing as his muscles expand and contract. Even better, the pain in his thigh has lessened to not much more than a deep ache-almost non-existent by his standards. His heart is pounding, respiration's up, senses on alert, but without the overwhelming fear that's been flooding him lately . . . it's fantastic. He starts to smile.

"Now that's what I like to see," the woman says with a soft chuckle. She reaches around to stroke his penis, a steady driving rhythm that's pushing him higher and higher, right up to the edge of the falls where he can see the swirling whitewater waiting below. "Come for me, my beautiful man. Right in my hand . . . that's it . . . excellent."

He shudders as he dives headlong into release. The sensation is intense, coruscating. He is vaguely aware of the woman holding him close as she did before, but all he can feel is afterglow soaking into every atom of his being. Slowly he relaxes, nerves humming with luscious mellow wellbeing, and to his astonished disbelief, he is able to take a small measure of peace in being touched. He'd say that outweighs the spectacular orgasm he's just enjoyed, but he's not quite that far gone yet.

After a time he's vaguely aware of being freed, the blindfold removed. A slender arm slips about his waist as he is led to another room. The woman matches his halting gait with ease, saying nothing. After a brief interval he is helped onto what must be a bed. His last thought before sleep claims him is _good thing it's the weekend._

When he wakes, it is to find he is indeed in what appears to be a small bedroom. There is a lamp on a stand nearby, its light revealing clean lines, simple furniture, plain linens. His clothing is draped over the easy chair next to the bed. A silk robe and his cane lie atop them, with a note: _please join me for dinner._

He isn't sure what to expect when he walks through the doorway, but it isn't an enclosed terrace. It looks as though it can be opened during the warmer months; for now there are privacy screens in front of some of the glass panels, pots of fragrant herbs and flowers set here and there, and a fine view of the Philly skyline. It's warm here too, even though it's snowing outside, and there's music playing; Oscar Peterson, nice choice. The entire effect is one of intimacy without forcing it, something he appreciates now more than ever.

M'lady is waiting, seated at a table with a bottle of wine, food and two place settings. She's wearing a robe like his, only it looks a lot nicer on her. As he approaches she watches him, smiling.

"How do you feel?" she asks. He settles into the chair opposite hers.

"Better," he admits.

"My lady," she prompts. Her voice holds a note of gentle amusement.

"Okay," he says, and she laughs, her features alight with humor. This is his first chance to really look at her, and he sees she's beautiful—not a glossy-magazine prettiness, but a quiet radiance that clearly comes from the inside out. She has fair skin, an oval face with regular features and high cheekbones, a long straight nose, and an abundance of honey-gold hair now tamed into a thick braid. Her grey eyes are deepset and slightly tilted, like a cat's. When she smiles there are little dimples on either side of her mouth that flash and disappear. She sits straight in her chair with that natural, unconscious elegance some women have from birth. He knows without asking that she owns a healthy measure of self-respect; it is the wellspring of her work, but he suspects she had to earn it through some difficult experiences.

Dinner is a slow, relaxed process—_very old-style French_, he thinks, _she was probably raised there_. She doesn't eat much, but she savors what she does take. She doesn't seem to expect him to talk, which is something of a relief. He hates sitting at a table and being forced to chat, it's an excruciating process. Still, eventually his curiosity overcomes his reticence.

"Am I permitted to ask questions? Uh—m'lady," he says, his gaze lowered as he watches her through his lashes. She sits back, a slight smile playing over her full lips.

"You may ask. I may not answer," she says, and sips her wine.

"How long have you been practicing?"

"As a doctor, or as a dom?" She chuckles. "I received my doctoral degree twenty years ago. My top gave me my first flogger five years before that."

That would probably make her about ten years younger than he is. "What drew you to this line of work—m'lady?" He emphasizes the last word to let her know he thinks her title is pure kitsch.

She sets aside her wine. "I expected more astute questions from the great Gregory House," she says. Those grey eyes hold shrewd, assessing good humor. For a moment he's reminded of Nolan. "Since you're trying to draw me out to reveal my weaknesses, I'll save you the trouble. I had an excellent childhood despite losing my mother at a very young age. My father and I had a difficult but loving relationship until he died two years ago. I enjoyed every year of school, have had one serious relationship and a number of very un-serious ones. I've never worked as a prostitute out of personal preference, and don't plan to become one in the future." She tilts her head a bit. "I employ sex therapy because in my experience, it's a method that yields above-average results in certain circumstances. In your case I suspect Darryl felt more conventional modes wouldn't work because you're too smart for your own good."

He acknowledges this _riposte_ with a slight nod. "So it's your task to crack my nuts, so to speak."

She leans forward just a bit. "I'm not a ball-breaker," she says firmly. "If you want someone to treat you like a naughty little boy, there are plenty of other options available. What I will do is help you regain some of your trust, if you decide to work with me."

"And that's all there is to it? Some sex with you and wham bam, I can walk in a crowd without freaking out?" He lets his sarcasm show now, even as he rubs his thigh. The pain is back, relentless, remorseless, his only permanent companion, now and forever.

"Do you have medication?" Her quiet voice annoys him.

"Already took it," he snaps. "Endorphins don't last forever."

She's watching him, frowning a little. "You're not in pain management?"

"I see enough specialists and shrinks as it is." He takes his hand away and picks up the fork, eats a bite of the excellent casserole he has no doubt she made herself. She says nothing more, just sips her wine, but he senses she's thinking about what he's said. No doubt it'll all go into her notes later on, after he's gone.

It's later, when they are enjoying a dessert of grilled pears and herbed _chevre_ with some German ice wine, that she gives him a small velvet-covered box.

"Proposing on the first date?" he says. She doesn't reply, only watches when he opens it. Inside is a large ring. It appears to be brushed white gold with rounded smooth edges, milled thin to lighten the weight somewhat, with lapis lazuli insets, little rectangles mounted flush to keep the surface smooth.

"If you want to continue to work with me, you'll wear it," she says. It's not a request. He looks down at it, then at her.

"Why?"

"You know why. Are we still on for next week?" She offers him her smile, mysterious and cool.

He thinks about it. What the hell, it might work. And even if it doesn't, he'll get sex out of it at least. "Yeah."

"My lady," she prompts. He sighs.

"That's so corny," he complains.

"Nevertheless, I insist."

"Fine. M'lady." He rolls his eyes.

She gives him a slight nod. "Excellent."

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. _**


	2. Session Two

**_(Many thanks to everyone who has favorited this story and/or me as author. I'm deeply honored and very humbly grateful. -B) _**

_March 26th_

House stands on the stage, looking out into the shadows. He wears a smirk, plenty of bravado and nothing else, but deep inside he's shaking. He is one hundred and sixty-seven minutes late for his session, and he knows he's in big trouble. He fights to keep his fear from turning him into a sniveling wreck curled on the floor in fetal position.

"You've broken our agreement." M'lady's voice is cool and unemotional, but there is an undercurrent of annoyance he knows all too well—he's heard it from other people enough times in various situations over the years.

"Would you believe a terrorist splinter group hijacked my cane?" Dead silence. He takes a deep breath. "Splinter, cane—get it?" Crickets chirping. "Okay, didn't think so. I-I had to work late," he says quietly, and with great reluctance. This is bringing back bad memories of standing before his father, trying to explain and knowing whatever he says won't make a difference. "Ended up staying all night and overslept." His leg is still aching, even after a power nap in the recliner and two extra ibuprofen, and he is exhausted.

"I see." There is no discernable change in her voice. "Turn around, please."

He is not fastened to the cross this time, though she does blindfold him. Instead he is taken into another room. She guides him with care down a carpeted corridor, moving with him as he limps hard, supporting him with surprising strength.

When they reach the room he can tell it's good-sized by the slightly cooler ambient air temperature. To his surprise M'lady removes the blindfold. He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the soft lamp-light. He's in a bedroom, but not the one she took him to on his first visit. Before him is a beautiful four-poster canopy bed, hung with crochet-lace curtains, their original white faded to a soft ivory with age; it's made up with what appear to be real linen sheets and a thick quilt pieced in varying shades of blue velvet and silk fabrics. Soft pillows are piled everywhere. There's a magnificent old maple-wood chest of drawers nearby, filled with _accoutrements_ no doubt, and a standing tray with several floggers and straps lined up in a neat row beside a cut-crystal water carafe and two matching glasses. The wide-plank floor is covered with a faded but beautiful Aubusson silk carpet. The _ambience_ is not fussy or frilly, just quietly feminine with an intriguing element of kink, much like the woman standing next to him.

"This place is ours and no one else's," M'lady says. He glances at her in surprise before lowering his gaze. She laughs softly.

"You look so good in blue. It's your color," she says with a slight smile, and leads him to the bed. He is half-expecting to be bound to a post, but she pats the mattress and says "On your back."

"Do I have to?" he says, not quite whining but not a statement either. M'lady raises a brow. "Uh, m'lady," he adds, making it clear he still considers her insistence on the title pointless. She says nothing, just waits for him to comply. He eases onto the bed, feeling awkward and more than a little ridiculous, and watches as she stretches out his arms and legs and ties them to the posts with soft white silk cords, taking particular care to make sure his bad leg is propped to keep his thigh loose and relaxed. He is not pulled taut; in fact he's quite comfortable, but maybe he knows now how a chicken might feel when it's trussed for the processing line—not a particularly pleasant image to have in his head at the moment, nor a logical one. M'lady sits next to him. She puts her hand on his shoulder, light and gentle.

"Please tell me more about what happened to make you late."

"Nothing to tell," he mutters.

"So it was a lie?" She tilts her head a bit. "Usually you're not quite so obvious. Lying about lying is overkill in this situation. The truth would serve you better."

He looks away. "Patient tanked, had to go in for surgery. Pathology came in twelve hours later. No point in going home, so I slept in the office on the lounger." He doesn't mention the bottle of Booker's in his desk drawer, a little something he keeps to add to his coffee or drink by the shot when the ibuprofen doesn't cover even a tenth of his pain. Still, he has the feeling she knows about it anyway, and won't come down on him for it. The thought is reassuring, so he pushes it away as a fantasy too dangerous for indulgence.

"You work hard to help your patients find healing," she is saying. "I understand now." She leans down and kisses him, a lingering salute that has him wanting her more than ever; he's been thinking about her all week, disturbing, erotic little daydreams that pull him away from his endless puzzle-solving and help him get through his day, though not without a certain frustration accompanying those mental movies.

When the kiss ends she takes his penis in hand and removes the silver ring, sets it aside. "You wore it," she says, smiling a little.

"Yes, m'lady," he says, his eyes on her hand. There is something so terrifying and yet delicious in knowing he can't stop her from touching him unless he uses the safe word. A _frisson_ of relief flits through his mind, but it's gone before he can capture it.

"All week?" She works him with a light touch, her fingers trailing over his shaft.

"Yes—ahhh . . ." He arches his back as she tickles the sweet spot under the glans.

"Well done, my handsome man," she says, and laughs when he finally gets the chance to roll his eyes and glare at her. "You don't agree?"

"I'm not handsome," he growls, and quickly adds "m'lady" when she raises an eyebrow.

"But I say you are." Under the stern tone is a little bubble of something he can't quite define. That combination makes him uneasy, and yet another small, hidden part of him looks forward eagerly to what she's going to say. "Let me show you." She lies down next to him and turns his face to hers. With reluctance he looks into her eyes; they are a softly luminous grey with a few tiny dots of gold scattered in the iris, like stars. He sees no pity or sympathy, only understanding and something that he thinks might be pride—pride in _him, _he realizes with an almighty shock.

"You have honest eyes," she says. "They tell me that you are a bright and noble spirit, whether you believe it or not." She leans in and gently presses her lips to his temple. The tenderness in the action surprises him into silence. "You have a marvelous face. It's lived-in and so expressive. I could watch you for hours. You have a delicious mouth," she proves it by giving him a kiss that puts all her previous efforts to shame. "That bottom lip tempts me to all sorts of rash actions because I know you're a sensualist, a sybarite. I knew it the moment I looked at you. It saddens me that such a profound appreciation for the beauties of life is hidden behind an equally profound fear. We'll have a lot of fun exploring those secret qualities," her lips brush his as she speaks, her breath warm on his skin. Her hands come to rest on his chest. "You have the most wonderful architecture."

He can't help it, he has to question her. "'Architecture?'"

She taps his chest. "My lady," she insists, and chuckles when he just grunts. He catches his breath at the way her face softens into real beauty when she laughs. "Lovely strong shoulders, runner's hips, long legs and arms, musician's hands . . . they don't make them any nicer." She trails her fingers over his flank, up his good thigh and gently pinches his ass. "The rest of you is quite delightful as well."

He doesn't know what to say to this assessment, so he stays silent.

"You don't believe me, do you?" She sighs and gives him a disapproving look, her eyes gleaming with laughter. "I'll have to discipline you for that, you know. And for being late. An agreement is an agreement."

His amusement grows cold, swallowed by dread. Her humor fades, replaced by quiet compassion. "My beautiful man," she says softly, "I hope someday you'll welcome what I do without fear."

She uses the flogger with the soft doeskin thongs on him first, tickling and teasing him with it, giving him little nibbles and kisses as she works her way over his chest and shoulders to his belly. The next toy is a bit more serious—another flogger, this one with thicker, tougher strips of leather. It stings a little, but not enough to make him tense up.

When she unties him and puts him on his belly however, he feels the fear begin to rise. His limbs are bound spread apart once more, with the same attention given to his right leg. He turns his head in time to see M'lady take a leather strap from the tray. It is thick and supple, just like a belt. Dread clenches deep inside and turns into outright fear, making him tremble. He knows all too well what it will feel like against his skin, the sharp crack and the lightning pain, white-hot, inescapable.

M'lady lays the strap on the bed next to him and removes her clothing. He is momentarily distracted by the sight of her unhooking her bra, stepping out of her panties. She has a solid, curvy body, with good hips and breasts like two pale moons, full and round. Her thick fair hair falls to her shoulders, soft as a cloud. When she is naked she picks up the strap and sits next to him.

"Someone used something like this on you, and not in a good way," she says. "Tell me more."

He is silent, recalling the times when he'd get ten hard hits just because, when Dad would use the buckle end as a special torment for really big offenses, when any movement or look would be interpreted as rebellious and result in an immediate doubling of the penalty. "There's no point in going over what happened," he says at last.

"There's every point." She touches him, her small hand on his shoulder, warm and gentle. "Please tell me."

"Dad was the authority in our house," he says after a long silence. "He was career military . . . he was . . . he was into being the authoritarian, no breaking or bending of rules, ever. Everything was black and white, truth or lie, no in between, no explanations, no—no excuses. He . . . liked to hurt people. He-he liked to hurt . . . hurt _me_." By the time he is done speaking he's having trouble breathing; his panic is fighting to escape, a living entity. It's the same sort of feeling he's experienced in session with Nolan, but it's worse here because he's physically exposed as well as mentally and emotionally. M'lady strokes his upper back, slow and steady. Gradually his fear recedes.

"Listen to me," she says after a time. "This is not an instrument of punishment. It will never strike you in anger or contempt or hatred. It will never harm you or make bruises or leave bloody welts. It won't do any of those things because _I_ won't ever do any of those things. You have my promise." She puts a hand on his shoulder, then stands. Despite her fine words he knows what's coming and turns his face away, shaking.

When the strap swats his ass it's barely more than a brush of leather but he jumps all the same, his bound hands twisting. "_No_," he begs, terrified beyond reason. "_Please_—" The second smack is worse. He starts to struggle in earnest to free himself and freezes when M'lady's hand cups his left cheek, caressing it gently.

"No bruises," she says softly. "No bloody welts. No pain. Feel me touching you. Does it hurt?"

He goes still, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Slowly he realizes she is right. "No . . . no." _But it will_, he thinks, and swallows on a throat gone dry with terror. _It will._

"Remember the safe word? What is it?"

". . . baker, M'lady."

"Very good. Use the safe word and this stops immediately."

She works his thighs and calves, the strikes no more than gentle smacks, then returns to his ass and leaves him tingling, his erection pressed into the mattress. By the time she is finished with him he's rising to meet each blow, whimpering as sensation thunders through his body, temporarily drowning out the pain from his thigh. Her hands massage his cheeks and he doesn't fight her, though he can't help groaning when her touch makes his sensitized skin come alive. The feeling goes straight to his hardening penis, sends shivers down his spine. When she frees his limbs and has him roll onto his back he battles the need to pull her on top of him. Instead he submits, biding his time as she carefully straddles him and brings his hands up to her breasts, holding them there with hers.

"You're such a tit man," she says, smiling down at him. "It's amusing to watch you when we talk sometimes. You can't pry your gaze from breast level."

He rubs his callused thumbs over her nipples just to see her catch her breath, her eyes closing as he caresses her, hefting the small weights, his fingers massaging her gently in the same way she worked his ass. But it's not enough; he can't hold out against temptation. Ever so slowly he eases her down and maneuvers her so she is beneath him, struggling to put as much of his weight as possible on his good leg. Missionary position is almost impossible for him, it requires two good thigh muscles to do the thrusting and he's only got one, but he does the best he can because he wants her under him, begging for him to go faster, deeper: under his thumb, so to speak.

To his rather amazed satisfaction she doesn't protest; her hands slide around to grab his ass and hold on while he plunges into her. It's been forever since he's had a woman this way. His sex life consists mainly of blow jobs and hand jobs and the occasional chair fuck, always with him lying passive, waiting to be taken. This feels glorious, so much like his life before the surgery that he has to exult in what he's doing. And so of course at that very moment his wretched thigh decides to contract in a tight hard spasm. He gives a sharp groan, his rhythm stuttering to a halt. He can't ignore the warning; if he does, he'll pay with at least a full week of immobility and immense pain.

"What—what is it?" She looks up at him, concern struggling to take over from passion. "What's wrong?"

"I can't," he snarls, and pulls out, cursing his damaged leg and the relentless tyranny it holds over every aspect of his life. He starts to roll away from her and is stopped when her hands take gentle hold of him.

"Wait . . . just wait." She eases him on his side while she sits up. "Here . . ."

By degrees she helps him settle into a half-reclining position, careful to keep his thigh from going into full lockdown by tucking pillows here and there as he hangs on by a thread, gritting his teeth. "You have medication for this?" she asks, and her concern stabs at him, fully as painful as his thigh.

"Coat pocket," he says through clenched jaws, and watches as she clambers out of bed and heads off, moving fast. A few moments later she returns with the bottle and a heating pad. She pours a glass of water from the carafe and hands both pills and glass to him. While he shakes out a pill she puts the heating pad over his thigh, her touch gentle.

"It would be a good idea to have your meds on hand during sessions from now on," she says once he's taken some ibuprofen. "If you're on a schedule, please tell me so I can adjust things accordingly." He shoots her a hard look, but she doesn't seem upset or put off, just matter of fact. Her casual acceptance eases his mental discomfort but does nothing for his physical problem.

She solves that too though, lying next to him, stroking his belly and chest, kissing him long and slow while they wait for the painkiller to take the edge off, and the spasm to relax under the soft heat of the pad. When her hand takes hold of his flaccid penis he tenses, struggling to force the erection.

"Shhh . . ." She kisses him, lips soft and sweet. "Let me do the work. Relax, it's all right."

Soon enough she's bringing him back to life with her touch, sure, confident and tender. Bit by bit he rises. The ache in his loins is almost worse than the throbbing pain in his ruined quadriceps, but he still has the presence of mind to slide his fingers into the curls at the top of her thighs, finding the little nub of her clitoris throbbing and wet with juices. He parts the thin folds of hot flesh and strokes her, swallows her moan in his mouth, his tongue twining with hers. They take each other higher until pleasure washes through him as he finally reaches climax, with her not far behind.

When he comes back to reality he is being cradled by a warm soft body. Every part of him is soaked in the sweet hum of afterglow, something of a surprise given the interruption in proceedings; he's rarely felt this good after sex, because most of the time he hires hookers to get some release and a little furtive human closeness, not to experience a full-on orgasm. It's astonishing that he's sated after what amounts to little more than mutual masturbation, but he won't question it. He's used up and it's absolutely wonderful. Best of all, his thigh has responded to the meds and gentle handling and subsided to a nagging but bearable ache.

"So," M'lady says at last, "not too bad being disciplined, wouldn't you agree?" She strokes his chest with a slow, considering gesture. He catches her hand in his; he wants to bring it to his lips but that seems too intimate, too trite.

"I'll have to be late more often," he says, and she laughs, sweet and soft.

"My lady," she says. He sighs.

"M'lady. Even if your real name is Dana Gardener."

She's surprised, but her answer isn't what he expects. "Both my names are real. It just depends on the context."

Later, when they are enjoying a cup of coffee together on the terrace after a late breakfast, she gives him a small blue velvet bag. "I want you to wear this, but first you must tell me what it means."

He opens it and draws out the contents. It appears to be a bracelet made of fine dark leather, thin, narrow and supple, with a line of brushed-silver knotwork down the middle; substantial enough for him to feel against his skin, modest enough not to be noticed. He looks down at it for a few moments.

"Not all leather straps are bad," he says. M'lady tilts her head a bit.

"Very good," she says. "What else?"

He puts the bracelet on his right wrist and fastens the clasp. It feels like it was always meant to be there. "A reminder to be on time."

"Excellent." She gives him her cool, mysterious smile. There's more."

He takes a deep breath. This is the place where he either goes forward or stops and turns around. "I'm yours." The words sound strange; he's never said them to anyone before, not even Stacy. He's not even sure what they really mean, but he knows it's true nonetheless. And that he'll be driven to challenge them. M'lady nods.

"Within our sessions together, yes you are," she says softly. "I want you to remember that when you are tempted to take control the way you tried today."

Suddenly the tabletop holds a certain fascination for him. He stares at it, feeling his face grow warm. With anyone else he'd be administering the smackdown of the century, but here, in this intimate space, somehow things are different. He doesn't want to destroy what is fast becoming a haven from the apprehensions and pain of everyday life.

"You're a natural boundary-tester and I respect that," M'lady is saying. "But here in these rooms you are my subject." This time there is no humor or indulgence in her words or voice. Then her hand reaches out to touch his. "I know it'll happen again. I'd expect nothing less. I'm just reminding you that there will be consequences." She pauses. "How are you feeling? Your leg . . . ?"

"It's fine," he says, and turns his hand palm up, his fingers clasping hers. "I . . . I don't," he begins, not knowing what to say. "I can't . . ."

"My beautiful man," she says when he falls silent, "it'll be all right. You'll see."

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. :)**_


	3. Session 3, part 1

**_(Many thanks to everyone who has added my story and/or me to their Favorites lists. As always, I'm deeply honored and very humbly grateful. I say that a lot, but it's still true. :)_**

**_The next three posts deal with the crane disaster in Trenton from the sixth season finale, 'Help Me'. This storyline does not follow canon; I just took the event and added it to House and M'Lady's world. Hope you enjoy it. I'll post parts 2 and 3 on Monday and Thursday, respectively. -B)_**

_April 22nd_

"Thanks for coming out on such short notice, Doctor Gardener. We're swamped in the ER, but there are a few people ready for you to evaluate. If you'd come with me please?"

Dana hefted her backpack and followed the coordinator, hoping against hope the double-espresso latte she'd grabbed at Starbucks on the way in would wake her up. She'd just finished her last session when the call came asking for her help with evaluating patients brought in from the crane disaster in Trenton; she'd be working the rest of the day and most if not all of the night, and back at work tomorrow too, to make up canceled appointments. Caffeine would give her a measure of alertness at least for a time.

For several hours she checked one patient after the other, wincing inwardly at the physical injuries while keeping a calm and steady outward demeanor, ignoring the occasional clamor and rush of called codes and gurneys pushed down the hall toward emergency surgery. She could feel the weight of accumulated pain and misery slowly creeping into her tired brain, combining with her own exhaustion to slow her down; it grew more difficult to stay reassuring and upbeat but she did the best she could, knowing the wounded minds she worked with would perceive her emotions, if not her words.

It was in the small hours of the morning when she finished with the last patient and walked by an open bay on her way out. She paused, then took a few steps back.

House sat on a gurney, head bowed, barely recognizable under the thick coat of dust and grime covering him. His tee shirt was stained with drying blood; here and there bruises and scrapes showed through the dirt. A nurse fussed over a deep gouge on his shoulder.

"You have to let me take care of that wound or you'll get an infection!"

Dana walked over to the gurney. House did not acknowledge her. She looked at the nurse, who gave her a suspicious stare. Dana lifted up her ID badge and hid annoyance when the other woman looked it over. "Is there a problem?"

"I need to get him cleaned up and on his way but he's—" The nurse waved a hand at the silent figure. Dana felt a new surge of irritation.

"He's in shock," she said, doing her best to be polite while thinking _Idiot, it's your job to know how to handle this kind of reaction!_ "Let me take a look at him." Very carefully she stepped closer. House flinched and she stopped, knowing he would panic if she touched him.

"Greg," she said softly. At first he didn't respond, but after a few moments his head lifted just a little. Red-rimmed, bloodshot blue eyes focused on her with difficulty. Then he looked down again. Dana had a flash of him bound to the cross and blindfolded, his lean body rising to meet the gentle swat of a flogger . . . She set the memory aside.

"Does he have anything wrong other than the shoulder injury?" she asked. The nurse consulted his chart.

"No, his BP and heart rate's up a little and he's got some bruises and scrapes, but that's about it."

Dana nodded. "So he's okay to leave."

"I don't know . . ." the nurse said, looking doubtful.

"It's just a gouge, isn't it? I'll make sure he takes care of it," Dana said, giving the nurse a warm smile. "That frees up a bay for someone else." Before the other woman could object, Dana grabbed a handful of antibiotic ointment packets and butterfly closures off the prep tray, stuffed them in her pocket and turned to House. "Come on, Doctor House," she said in a matter-of-fact style she knew worked to get people moving. "Let's get you home."

At first he made no response. Then he eased off the gurney, his hand on his bad thigh. As he stood Dana saw him flinch hard. He said nothing however, just took his cane and jacket from the gurney and moved toward the door.

He followed her to the parking lot, leaning heavily on his cane, his limp worse than ever. Once he was settled in the passenger seat of her car she got in, started the engine and headed out of the parking lot. _Thank god for GPS_, she thought as she programmed House's address, remembering it from his case file. "We can make arrangements to pick up your car later. Do you have your apartment keys?" she asked aloud. There was no response. "Greg," she said slowly in a quiet, firm tone. "Do you have your keys?"

Slowly his hand crept to his jacket pocket, withdrew a ring with several keys on it.

"Okay," Dana said. "You keep them until we get to your place."

His head turned; he stared at her, his gaze traveling over her features, assessing her. He stared at her as if she was a stranger. Dana felt a chill of worry. Had he sustained some kind of head injury as well as the laceration? "Do you know who I am?" she asked. He looked away, his gaze fixed on the window.

"Yes." His voice was rough with exhaustion. "You're my kink shrink."

The title amused her. "Correct in essentials, at least. Good enough." She didn't speak again until they reached his place, a well-kept older building on a side street in downtown Princeton.

"Nice digs," she said as she opened the passenger side door. "Bet you bought in. I would have. This is a great location."

He didn't answer, but her words seemed to calm him a bit. He made no protest as she helped him out of the car and into the building.

His apartment was dark and chill, unwelcoming. Dana turned on a lamp and took a quick look around. There was a distinct air of neglect to the place; she wondered if he did anything more than sleep here. House moved away from her down a hallway, shedding his jacket to dump into a chair as he entered what was probably a bathroom. Dana began to explore, intent on finding the kitchen. Maybe after he was cleaned up she could get him to eat something and then—

A loud crash made her jump. She ran down the hallway and skidded into the bathroom to find House standing in front of a wall with a ragged hole in the plaster and lathe construction. "What happened?" she gasped. He didn't answer, just stared down at his hand. She looked too and felt a jolt of dread shoot down her spine. Two prescription bottles half-filled with pills lay in his bloodied palm. Dana could just make out the word 'hydrocodone' on one of the labels. _Oh my god,_ she thought, and fought real fear for the first time. "Doctor House," she said aloud. A shudder ran through him. His fingers closed over the bottles. For what seemed an eternity he held them, obviously waging a battle within himself. Finally he extended his hand.

"Here," he said hoarsely. "Get rid of 'em." He coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. His fingers shook so much she wondered how he could hold anything. "Hurry."

Dana took the bottles and suppressed a shudder when she saw they had little smears of blood on them. She pried off the caps and moved to the toilet, dumped the pills into the bowl and flushed. House watched the swirling water, his eyes fever-bright. When the last pill disappeared he slumped a little, reaching behind him to grip the edge of the sink. Dana realized he was close to falling down with exhaustion.

"Come on," she said, "let me draw you a bath—" She stopped when she saw the broken mirror in the tub, shards of glass and wood splinters everywhere. "_Shit_," she hissed, and House cringed, trembling. Dana closed her eyes for a moment and pulled in her anger. "I'm sorry," she said softly. He watched her, his wary apprehension giving way to a sort of dull acceptance of her presence.

She settled him on the couch and made sure he was comfortable, then went in search of basic first aid. A few minutes later she returned with a basin of warm water, a roll of paper towels, a couple of soft hand towels stacked atop a bath sheet, some liquid antibacterial hand soap, and paper tape and gauze from her own backpack as well as the packets of ointment and closures she'd filched from the ER. Dana put everything on the coffee table and sat down next to House.

"You're in shock," she said quietly. "I'm going to get you cleaned up a little. After that you need to lie down and rest."

He stared at the floor. "I killed my patient," he said, his voice ragged with exhaustion. Dana closed her eyes for a moment.

"Wait," she said, and got up to return to the kitchen. She discovered one lone can of Coke at the back of the bottom shelf next to some Indian takeout, petrified with age. She pitched the food into the trash and brought the soda with her to the living room. When she opened the can and offered it to House he made no move to take it.

"You're dehydrated and you need something a little more substantial than water," Dana said. "This stuff is less than ideal, but it's got some calories in with the liquid and that's all that matters right now."

He took it finally and managed a few swallows before handing the can to her. Dana set it on the table and put her hand out, a gesture he ignored. "Tell me what happened."

He was silent a long time. When he did speak finally, his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. "There was a woman trapped under . . . under a concrete beam. Her leg . . ." He trailed off.

"You had to amputate?" She made it a neutral question. He nodded.

"I waited too long, she was too stressed from the trauma. On the way in, she threw a fat embolism . . . there was nothing . . . nothing I could do." He drew in a shuddering breath. "She's dead."

"You tried to save her."

"_Don't!_ Don't make it all right that I killed her!"

"I'm not. You did the best—"

"No I didn't!" He was becoming agitated. "I didn't want her to lose her leg because _I _didn't want to lose mine after the damn blood clot destroyed the muscle! I wouldn't let them cut—and I thought—I thought if I could somehow get her out of there before . . ."

Dana said nothing. After a moment he reached out to clasp her hand in a hold so tight she bit back a gasp of pain.

"This _is_ real, isn't it? _You're_ real?" His agonized words made her heart ache for him. "I'm not—I didn't take the Vicodin?"

"No, you didn't," she said. He gave her fingers a convulsive squeeze but said nothing else.

She got him to drink a little more soda and persuaded him to remove the tee shirt. He was covered with bruises and scrapes under the dirt and grime; the gouge on his shoulder looked nasty.

"I'm going to clean you up a bit before I work on your injuries," she said. "You'll need pain meds and something to help you relax."

"Ibuprofen," he said. "By my bed."

Dana blinked. "That's all?"

He nodded. She got up and retrieved the bottle. It was prescription strength, but even so . . . She'd never imagined this was all he had to rely on; she thought he used it for breakthrough pain, not a main source of relief. _This is totally inadequate. I've got to get him into decent pain management,_ she thought as she shook out two tabs and gave them to him. He finished the Coke in several large swallows and simply sat there, waiting. Dana tested the water in the bowl. It had cooled off a bit but was still tepid. She soaked a paper towel and wrung it out, then faced him.

"I'll start from the top down," she said. "Tell me if I'm hurting you-"

"Just _do_ it!" he snarled. Dana gritted her teeth against snapping at him in return. Her entire body was sodden with tiredness and repressed emotion, but she pushed her irritation away and began to wipe his hair, removing the worst of the grime and dirt. At her touch he jumped but calmed down as she continued. She ditched the blackened paper towel on the floor, took a new square, soaked it and repeated the action. Slowly she moved down, adding a little soap as she stroked his forehead, careful to catch drips. When she began to wash his face House swallowed, his eyes closing as she gently removed dried blood and grime from his skin. Eventually she had the satisfaction of seeing him relax somewhat as she did thorough but careful work.

It took two basins of water to get him clean down to his hands; there was a sizeable pile of used paper towels on the floor by the time she was done. Dana wrapped the bath sheet around him while she worked on the gouge, moving quickly now as she sensed he was near the end of his strength.

"How long has this been open?" she asked him. He tried to focus on her, his eyes glazed with weariness.

"Don't know," he said. "Nurse Idiot gave me antibiotics." Dana nodded.

"All right. I'm not going to close it up, the chance of infection would be too strong. We'll just keep it protected with a gauze pad and some ointment."

When the wound was salved with Neosporin and lightly bandaged she tucked the towel around him to keep him warm. "I'm going to find you a clean shirt," she said, but he was already fading, barely able to sit upright, so she helped him lie down, making sure his damaged leg was propped and a soft cushion put behind his head before she draped the throw over him.

While House slept Dana cleaned up the mess from taking care of him, then prowled through the silent apartment, getting the lay of the land and making a priority list. No food in the kitchen meant a trip to the nearest all-night grocery, if she could find one close enough. Eventually he would need to rest in a real bed but it looked like the sheets on his hadn't been changed in some time. And the bathtub needed to be cleared of broken glass and wood so he could wash properly.

She pulled her netbook out of her backpack, did a quick online search and found a twenty-four hour Acme a couple of blocks away. She stripped the bed, remade it, put the soiled sheets in the washer and discovered there was no laundry soap. She added it to her shopping list along with softener, bar soap, shampoo and basic first aid supplies. _He really does just come here to eat takeout and sleep,_ she thought, and felt sorrow wash through her at the idea of him doing nothing more than existing. She shook it off and got to work.

Three hours later Dana rinsed the tub one final time and got to her feet, swaying a little. She was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open, but almost everything on the list was done—bathroom cleaned, kitchen stocked with basics and some treats as well, washer chugging away on a second load of laundry made up mostly of the dirty clothes she'd found piled on the floor and in the overflowing hamper. Only breakfast was left to be cooked, but that could wait. _I need a power nap,_ she thought, and trudged down the hall to check on House. He was deep in sleep. Dana watched him for a while, making sure his pulse and respiration were normal. If there was an infection, the antibiotics should take care of it; if he needed help, she'd take him in herself, but she doubted that would be necessary. Yawning, she went to his bedroom, clambered onto the bed, set her watch for two hours, and sank into oblivion before she could turn out the light.

The quiet beep of the watch's alarm woke her out of a vivid dream of fire and noise and people running. Dana sat up slowly, confusion giving way to remembrance. A weak bar of grey light filtered into the quiet room; it was morning, and she was staying at House's place to take care of him. She glanced at her watch—seven a.m. She'd have to call her secretary in another hour and start rescheduling appointments and sessions for the rest of the week. There was no way she would leave House alone; he wasn't taking care of himself as it was, even under better conditions . . . She rubbed tired eyes and stretched, longing for another hour of sleep.

On that thought she went to the living room to check on him. He was still out, but he had pulled the throw to the top of his body so that his feet and legs were uncovered. Dana padded back to the bedroom, did some digging and unearthed a spare blanket—still wrapped in a plastic zippered bag with a store tag on it, it was obviously something he'd never bothered to use—shook it out, and took it with her to the couch. She removed the throw with care and floated the blanket over him. It was made of thick cotton with a soft weave, warm and light. She tucked it in under his feet and adjusted it to cover his shoulders. At her touch he murmured and shifted a little, grimacing. His eyes fluttered open for a moment.

"It's all right," Dana said quietly, "go back to sleep," but he was already gone once more. She studied him. He was pale, the lines of pain more obvious, with a sort of weary sadness in his strong features that she'd noticed before. Without conscious thought she leaned down and gave him a kiss, just a brush of her lips over his cheek, then left him to rest.

Two hours later she was curled up in a chair with her netbook, nibbling a croissant and halfway through a second cup of coffee while she worked her way down a list of referrals, when a knock sounded at the door. Dana saved her current reply and went to answer it. A woman stood outside. She was attractive in a striking way, dark-haired and on the short side, curvy without being plump; in her summer-weight linen suit, silk blouse and pearls she was every inch the administrator. A sexy admin too; the blouse was open to reveal cleavage, her skirt snug enough to show off her shapely hips.

"Good morning," Dana said, acutely aware of her own somewhat wilted appearance. "Can I help you?"

"You're . . . Dana Gardener," the woman said.

"Doctor Gardener, yes."

"What are you doing here?" Dana hid a smile at her peremptory tone.

"Taking care of a patient."

"I thought you were working with the crane disaster patients and their families," the woman said. She eyed Dana with suspicion. "House doesn't qualify as either one."

"Actually he is my patient, so my presence here is justified. May I ask who you are?" Dana inquired, making her tone pure politeness.

"Doctor Lisa Cuddy," the woman said, sounding a bit terse now. "I'm Dean of Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro. How did you end up here?"

"Ah, Doctor Cuddy. How nice to meet you." Dana paused. "Apparently Doctor House was called in to work at the site in Trenton last night. I was asked to counsel anyone who needed help, and that includes first responders and medical personnel. I'll be going back in a few days for follow-up evaluations." She moved aside and opened the door a little wider. "Would you care for a cup of coffee?"

Doctor Cuddy shook her head. "No, I'm on my way in. I just wanted to make sure House got home all right." She peered into the apartment and caught sight of him sleeping on the couch. "He should be in bed!" She glared at Dana.

"He was exhausted and in too much pain to make it that far last night," Dana said quietly. Cuddy gave her a direct look, but Dana didn't back down. They stared at each other in silence.

"How—how is he?" Cuddy asked after an awkward moment or two. Her voice was softer now, filled with real concern, and she looked a little worried. "He—he wasn't hurt?"

"He's bruised and sore and there's a deep gouge on his shoulder, but it's clean and bandaged. If it looks like it's infected I'll make sure he gets another round of antibiotics. He'll be down for a couple of days, his blood pressure and heart rate were elevated."

Cuddy gave her an odd look. "Good thing you told me. It'll save a phone call and a lot of aggravation."

"Ah, of course. You're his boss. Silly of me not to have realized that," Dana said. _Interesting. There's a lot more going on here than meets the eye._

"Most days I'm more like a nanny than a boss." Cuddy turned to go. "By the way, don't let him play you."

Dana narrowed her eyes. She didn't like the cynical tone of that last remark. "Excuse me?"

"He's an addict. In situations like this he tends to lie about his pain to score more meds. I'm sure you recognize drug-seeking behavior. He's been clean for a year, but that could change at any time." Cuddy gave Dana a brisk nod. "Let me know if he needs anything."

Dana watched her stride down the hall to the front entrance, then closed the door without a sound and locked it. She went back to the chair, prey to a number of feelings about Doctor Cuddy, none of them respectful.

"You handled her pretty well." House was awake and watching her. In the soft morning light he looked a little less beaten down, a bit of color in his cheeks now. Dana came over to him and perched on the coffee table.

"I'm used to dealing with authority," she said. "How about some breakfast, a bath and a leisurely two days of rest?"

"Can't do any of that," he said, wincing as he struggled to sit up. Dana gave him a slight smile.

"You'd be surprised."

She made him scrambled eggs with a croissant and a cup of coffee. House accepted the food without comment and demolished everything on his plate, opting for a second croissant spread thick with raspberry jam. While he ate she drew a bath for him, piling clean towels in a stack by the tub along with his bathrobe. On the way back she put the second load of clothes into the dryer and filled the washer again, then got herself a fresh cup of coffee and sat down.

"I didn't realize you were so domesticated," House said. "It doesn't really fit with the whips and chains routine."

"I know my way around a household chore or two. Your bath water's getting cold," she said. "I suggest we tape some plastic over the bandage on your shoulder."

He allowed her to put a small sandwich bag over the gauze, his head turned away. He was ripe with the stink of sweat, dirt and dried blood, despite her attempt to clean him up. "Will you need help getting in and out of the tub?" she asked as she finished taping the bag in place. For answer he stood and limped away without a word.

An hour or so later she heard him emerge from the bathroom. He came slowly down the hall, the thump-step of his compromised gait familiar to her by now.

"You can leave."

Dana looked up from the netbook screen. House hovered at the edge of the living room, glowering at her. He was bundled into a shabby old robe over a freshly laundered pair of sweats and a tee shirt, his hair sticking up in all directions, but at least he looked cleaner and a little less drawn.

"No," she said, and went back to answering an email from her secretary.

"_Yes_," he said. "I don't need a nanny."

The bitterness in his voice alerted her. _So he heard that. _"I'm not a nanny," she said quietly. "I'm someone who cares about you."

He snorted in derision. "Uh, _yeah,_ because a handful of paid sessions tying me up and having hot sex is all about giving a flying rat's ass."

Dana sent off the email. "After that visit from your boss, I can understand now why you're surprised someone you've only known a short time is concerned for your welfare."

House looked away. "Cuddy's . . . Cuddy."

Dana checked her email a final time. "And I'm me. You need someone to help out a little over the next day or two. I plan to do it." She yawned, weariness finally catching up with her.

"You—you were up all night." He stared at her like she had two heads. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"A lot by your standards, apparently." She smiled at him. "Your bed's got clean sheets."

He was still watching her. "Is that an invitation?"

Dana chuckled softly. "It's me saying your bed's got clean sheets. I'm going to wash up and crash on the couch. If you want to take in some tv that won't bother me." She shut down the netbook and got to her feet, stretching.

"There's no hot water," House informed her as she went past, backpack in hand.

"I don't care," she said, and meant it.

She cleaned her face, brushed her teeth, wrestled her hair into a braid and pulled on a fresh tee shirt. Feeling a little better, she returned to the living room to find House hunched over the coffee table, looking through her netbook. She didn't even bother to glance at the screen.

"If you're searching for your case notes they're not on there," she said. "Move over a bit, please."

"You have the most boring computer in existence," he said. "I thought there'd be some decent bondage porn at least. All you've got loaded is Alchemy and a bubblewrap popper, which would have been so cutting edge twenty years ago."

"I'm not into busman's holidays." Dana yawned again and brought her legs up, then curled on her side. She pulled the throw over her and pushed the cushion under her head, closed her eyes and gave a quiet sigh of pleasure at how truly delicious it felt to sink . . . into . . .

_TBC! _

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. :)_**


	4. Session 3, part 2

**_(To everyone who has followed me or this story, thank you. As always, I'm deeply honored and humbly grateful. House fic readers are the best! -B)_**

_April 23rd_

She woke with a start at the feel of someone's hand on her shoulder. "_J'viens,_" she mumbled, struggling to climb out of sleep.

"Wake up. You're dreaming." The rough, deep voice wasn't her father's. Dana blinked and turned her head. A man sat next to her on the couch—House. He looked better, his expression more alert, his eyes clearer.

"Mmm . . . sorry if I disturbed you," she said, and sat up slowly, stretching. "What time is it?"

"Six, more or less." He paused, his gaze darting away from hers. "I was going to order some takeout."

"You don't have to do that," she said.

"I know I don't," he snapped, then pulled back. "Just because you crammed my kitchen full of food . . ." He fell silent, quite obviously at a loss as to what to say.

"I like to cook," she said quietly. "Let me make you one of my favorites."

She heated up some impulse-purchase vegetable spring rolls in the oven while she made beef _pho_, fragrant with cinnamon, lemongrass and black pepper. A cold, drizzly rain had begun to fall outside when she brought the tray through to the living room and set it on the coffee table. House sat up as she perched beside him. "That smells incredible," he said. "Where the hell did you get everything to make it?"

Dana removed the makeshift cover on one of the oversized coffee mugs she'd used as a soup bowl and pulled the plate of garnishes and spring rolls a little closer. "At the store down the street. It's one of the few dinners that's healthy and tastes good too." She uncovered the other cup and claimed it for herself. "Life doesn't offer bargains like this very often. Might as well take advantage of it."

She had the satisfaction of seeing him devour most of the spring rolls in the process of emptying his bowl. While he ate she finished her soup, walked over to the fireplace and went on her haunches, examining the hearth and firebox. Both needed cleaning, but the wood stacked on the hearth was dry if a bit dusty.

"TV's more entertaining and a lot less work," House said behind her. "Besides, you can just turn up the thermostat."

For answer she removed the ashes from the firebox, stacked two logs in the grate, and took some kindling from the basket on her left.

"Georgia fat-pine, very nice," she said as she arranged the sticks under the logs. "Too bad we don't have some dry pine cones. They snap and pop. That's a lovely sound on a rainy evening."

"You're all about pleasing the senses, aren't you?" House said as he handed her a lighter. Dana nodded, unperturbed by the derision she heard in his words.

"Might as well savor life when you get the chance," she said, watching as the kindling caught, sending up bright flames to lick the underside of the logs. Within a few minutes they too were beginning to burn. She closed the glass doors almost shut for safety's sake. "Besides, this will help with dessert."

"You're so determined to take care of me," he said as she sat next to him on the couch.

"Of course I am."

"Would you have done this for anyone else in that ER?" He watched her closely as he spoke.

"Probably not," she said. That took him by surprise.

"So I'm a special case," he said slowly.

"You're you," she said, smiling a little. He didn't reply so she collected cups and plates, removing them to the kitchen. When she returned she had a tray with two steaming mugs of coffee, a box of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows and several bars of Equal Exchange dark chocolate.

"_S'mores_?" House rolled his eyes. "Why, of course. It's the perfect dessert to follow a healthy dinner."

Dana chuckled. "Don't knock it till you've tried it." She opened the marshmallow bag and popped a soft white cube into her mouth. "Got anything to roast these on?" she said, chewing slowly.

They ended up using chopsticks, with House demonstrating how to make the marshmallows hot and gooey enough to melt the chocolate without falling off. Soon enough two s'mores were ready to eat. Dana sat on the floor pressed gently against House's good leg, munching her treat and watching the flames. The room was warmer now, more cheerful and intimate. House seemed to sense the change as well.

"I always made popcorn in the fireplace at our townhouse," he said. Dana wondered who made up the other half of the 'our' in that sentence. Quite obviously it was someone of significance; House had no history of any long-term close relationships as far as she could tell, or at least none he spoke of. "We had one of those big cast iron poppers. The thing weighed a ton but worked perfectly. Made nice fluffy popcorn. We used to season it with bacon salt. Awesome stuff."

"_Bacon_ salt?" Dana considered it. "Hmm . . . maybe."

"Everything's better with bacon," House said. She smiled a little.

"I once went to a restaurant where we were served thinly sliced _crudités_ and a lighted candle for the first course. The waiter poured the candle wax over the vegetables. It was clarified seasoned bacon fat."

"Nice," House said. Dana shook her head.

"Sounds better than it tasted." She finished a last corner of graham cracker and dusted her hands, sipped some coffee. "Want another one?"

"Nope." House reached into the marshmallow bag. "Just roast one of these. I like 'em burnt."

She did as he asked. When she handed House the stick the marshmallow began to slide off. Dana caught it, her slight hiss of pain changing to a resigned sigh as the soft insides melted and cooled over her fingers. Her amusement faded when House took her hand and guided it to his mouth. She waited, her gaze locked with his. When his tongue touched her she released a held breath. He licked the sticky treat just as the kindling flames had done with the logs: soft little touches at first, slow and caressing. Without conscious thought she sat up a little to give him better access, closing her eyes as he suckled her fingers one by one, his tongue stroking each digit. When he released her she came back to herself, startled by the lack of contact. She looked at him. House watched her, his gaze a mix of speculation, amusement and arousal that started a glow of heat deep in her belly. She scavenged a damp napkin from the table and wiped what was left of the marshmallow from her hand. Then she eased his knees apart and opened his bathrobe. She smiled at the sight of a sizable bulge under the soft fleece of his sweats.

It took some careful maneuvering, but after a bit of work on both sides he was naked from the waist down. Dana leaned forward and took gentle hold of his erection as she began to encourage him to grow, teasing him by using her tongue in much the same way he had—slow, languorous strokes, drawing him in further as she suckled him. His hands crept up to tangle in her hair as she slowly increased the rhythm, easing him into hardening without forcing him to work for it. He made a sound, a whimper caught somewhere between pain and pleasure; the simple human need in it tugged at her. Dana slid her hands around to hold his hips and took in the entire length of him, felt him quiver. She didn't push him however, just kept a steady pulse going until at last he released—not an explosion, more of a spilling over, his muscles shuddering. She eased him out of her mouth and his hands slid down to her shoulders to rest there, inert. When she looked up, it was to find his head tipped back so that she couldn't read his expression, but as she observed him he exhaled, a long deep sigh. Dana smiled a little. _Endorphins kicking in, _she thought. Without speaking she got up, went to the bathroom to wash her hands and rinse out her mouth. On her return she found him watching her, his hooded gaze searching, vulnerable. She sat on the couch next to him, broke a small piece off one of the chocolate bars on the coffee table, and put it on her tongue. Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

"You taste like s'mores," he said when the kiss ended.

"You look very sexy sitting there half-naked but I'm sure you're cold," she said in reply. He made a derisive noise.

"I'd rather see _you_ half-naked," he said, and gave her a speculative glance.

"That could be arranged."

He ended up with his sweats back on, sitting next to Dana while they watched a movie together. It wasn't exactly cuddling or snuggling as he was still too sore for much close contact, but she did take his hand in hers at one point and he didn't object or pull away. He had lovely hands, as she had once told him; strong, callused, lean. She glanced at the piano.

"Do you play?" she asked, knowing quite well he did. He nodded, looking wary.

"Sometimes."

Dana didn't pursue the subject. She turned her attention back to the movie and felt him relax a bit. _He's private about his music,_ she thought. _He's such a romantic and doesn't even know it._

"What are you thinking?" He sounded suspicious.

"That it's about time we checked out those clean sheets I put on the bed," she said. His clasp tightened gently.

"I . . . I won't be able . . . this soon after . . ." he said, sounding uncertain, hesitant. Dana rubbed her thumb over his palm in a slow circle.

"Then we'll just wait till morning," she said. He was silent a moment, and then he made a noise that could have been a laugh.

"A practical woman," he said, and struggled to his feet. "Okay. Tomorrow we'll see what we can do with some double-sided tape and a blue pill or two."

While he used the bathroom she banked the fire and closed the safety doors, then took the leftover s'mores ingredients to the kitchen to stow away in the small pantry that served as a storage area. She put the rest of the soup, garnishes and rolls in the fridge, mixed some oats with cold water and a pinch of salt and set them to soak, then went to her backpack and took out necessities. She hadn't planned on staying overnight anywhere; maybe she could borrow a tee shirt to sleep in.

When she entered the bedroom it was to find House folding back the covers. He moved slowly, and it was obvious he was in a fair amount of discomfort. Dana returned to the kitchen, took a croissant from the bag on the counter, put it on a plate, snagged a bottle of water from the fridge and went into the bedroom. She set the food and water on the night stand beside House. He stared at it, then at her.

"What's this?"

"Something to save your stomach lining when you take your meds," she said.

"I'm old enough to make my own decisions," he said. Dana shrugged.

"That's true. I'm just giving you the option." She tilted her head. "Mind if I borrow a shirt?"

"You don't sleep naked? Spoilsport," he grumbled, but dug through a drawer and tossed her a tee.

When she emerged from the bathroom half the croissant was gone, the water bottle missing a third of its contents.

"It'll be your fault if I have to get up to pee in the middle of the night and wake you," House said, and pushed the covers aside for her. Dana climbed in and lay on her side, facing away from him as he brought the sheet and blanket up over her and turned out the light. With a soft groan he settled in behind her. A moment later she felt his hand slip under the tee shirt and cup her breast with the lightest of touches. She let his fingers trail over her side to her hip, his palm sliding over her skin. It was a gesture of exploration, but it also felt comforting. She relaxed, enjoying his tenderness.

"Dana," he said after a moment or two. His rough baritone was softer, more intimate. She liked the way he said her name. "It means 'of the goddess Danu'."

"And Gregory means 'one who watches'," she said, stretching a little. When he gently pulled her to him she didn't object, snuggling in spoon fashion. His arm went about her waist.

"_Bonne nuit,_" she said softly, yawning. His warm breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck.

"'night," he murmured. Dana put her hand over his and felt the gradual loosening of sleep come over him. She wasn't far behind.

When she woke the first faint light of morning was stealing through the window on the other side of the room. She couldn't see the clock from where she lay, but her internal sense of time told her it was probably somewhere around seven—she usually woke up about then most days. House lay next to her, snoring softly. With as much stealth as she could muster she got out of bed, shivering a little in the cooler room air, and headed for the bathroom.

Upon her return she found House propped on one elbow, squinting at her. He was frowning, his hair tousled; he looked formidable and endearing at the same time.

"Whatsa matter?" he wanted to know. Dana perched on the edge of the bed and put her sweater and jeans down beside her, ready to pull on a clean sock from the pair she'd taken out of her backpack the night before.

"Nothing," she said, "getting dressed," and gave a little squeak when a long arm reached out to ease her down.

"Not yet," House said.

When she rose again she was used up in the most delicious way, her mind and body thoroughly soaked in lovely afterglow. House lay stretched out on the bed, a beatific expression softening his strong features. Dana leaned down to give him a slow, lingering kiss. After it ended she said "I'm going to take a bath, and then if you don't mind I'll play your piano."

"I think you just did," he said. She chuckled softly and straightened, then went off to take care of business.

When she emerged clean and dressed it was still raining, the windows facing the street streaked with drops. As a consequence the morning was raw and damp. She swept up the hearth, stacked a couple of logs and started a new fire, then sat down at the piano. It was a beautiful instrument, well-used and cherished if the patina on the keys was anything to go by. Dana paused. She remembered mornings practicing in Florence, golden Italian summer sun streaming over her shoulders; crisp fall afternoons in Prague, snowy winter evenings in Paris, chilly spring dawns in Boston . . . a kaleidoscope of images fell one after another through her mind's eye, clear and bright. Without conscious thought she began to play. The touch of the keys under her fingers was like meeting with an old friend. The notes moved through the quiet room unadorned, melody and harmony united in simple brilliance.

At the end she became aware of someone sitting beside her. She let her hands rest on the keys with some reluctance.

"Shown in your true colors as a sentimental romantic, playing a waltz," House said. "Chopin, opus sixty-nine, number two. You're a professional."

"My father was. He taught me well, but I don't have anything like his immense talent."

House was silent a moment. When he looked at her again, she saw the light of recognition in his eyes. "You changed your name because you're Alex Desjardin's daughter. 'Desjardin' means 'gardener."

"Yes." She touched a key and pushed away apprehension. "It makes life a little easier."

"Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. It's excellent blackmail material." House glanced down at her hands. "My last music teacher felt your father's interpretations of Chopin were among the best in living memory. I have several of his recordings."

Dana smiled, though it was hard. "I won't disagree." She looked at him. "Would you play for me? Please?"

House shook his head. "I'm not—" He stopped when she put a hand on his arm.

"I don't expect perfection," she said. "Play whatever you like. I have a feeling I'll enjoy it." She hesitated. "If it's easier for you, I'll go out of the room."

After a moment he nodded. She slid to the end of the bench and stood, then went into the kitchen.

She was loading rinsed plates into the dishwasher when the first notes of the 'Aria', the opening theme of Bach's _Goldberg Variations_, sounded in the room. Dana closed her eyes and listened. House had a precise touch, both firm and sensitive—exactly right. Ma pere_ would approve_, she thought. _He doesn't rush either, just like he didn't with me. _She remembered him suckling her breast, slow and sweet, and shivered a little.

Bach ended and blues began. The contrast was striking, but the style was the same—assured and confident, his enjoyment in the expressive nature of the music quite evident. Still, there was a pensive quality she found rather sad.

When the piano fell silent she came into the room. House sat looking out at the wet weather. His thoughtful expression suited him; he had a melancholic disposition under the bravado and prickliness, a trait she had noticed in him from the start. He turned as she approached, his loneliness replaced by something almost like fear. Dana stopped by the piano bench.

"You're an excellent musician," she said. "My father would be pleased to hear you play both Bach and the blues so well."

"I'm no Glenn Gould," he said, but he relaxed a little despite his harsh reply. Dana smiled.

"There was only one, thank goodness," she said. "I don't think the planet could handle two at once," and he snorted in amusement, the apprehension fading.

She made a hot breakfast in deference to the weather—oatmeal with butter, brown sugar and cinnamon, accompanied by coffee and croissants warmed in the oven. Once again he ate well, stowing away the majority of the food. Dana sensed that if she weren't there he wouldn't have bothered with much more than the coffee; he needed so badly to have someone care for him . . . She set the knowledge aside and asked "How are you feeling?"

"Better," he said. "You can go now." He didn't look at her.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe beyond helping out a bit, I might actually enjoy your company?" Dana said quietly. "Because I do, you know."

His gaze swung to hers, more speculative than angry. "I pay you to have kinky sex with me. If you want to keep me as a client, you have to say that kind of thing."

Dana shook her head. "You come to me for therapy. This is quite separate from that, at least it is for me." She drew a deep breath as comprehension dawned. "Ah. Nice try."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he muttered.

"Pushing me away so I won't get any closer," Dana said. House stared into his coffee cup and said nothing. "You don't have to. I'm not here looking for undying love or a new living arrangement. You need a little help, I'm in a position to offer it."

"And the sex?" He sent her a piercing glare. "Was that 'helping'?"

"It made me feel better," she said in complete truth. "I hope it did the same for you."

"So you were just taking care of me there too." House sounded bitter. Dana reached out to touch his hand.

"Maybe a little, but it's more about a delightful opportunity to explore impressive architecture," she said, offering him a cheeky smile. After a moment he gave a reluctant chuckle, his expression lightening a bit.

They spent the rest of the morning lazing in the living room, House watching tv, Dana curled up next to him reading. The phone rang twice; he checked the caller ID both times. The first call he ignored and let go to the answering machine, the second he took.

"_What?_ Why are you bugging me? . . . I'm fine. No . . . no . . . yes, she came by. Don't even try to make me believe she didn't give you all the dirt and you're just calling to confirm what she said . . . Yeah, my therapist . . . _No._ I said no . . . I'm good. No, I'm _not _living on two week old takeout and beer. Breakfast? Let's see . . . three week old takeout and beer. Wilson . . . _Wilson._ I'm _kidding, _jesus_._ I had oatmeal." House rolled his eyes. To Dana's surprise he handed the phone to her. "He doesn't believe me," he said. Dana took the receiver with some hesitation.

"He did have oatmeal. And a croissant and coffee."

"I'm sure he paid you to say that," the man on the other end replied. He sounded exasperated.

"As a matter of fact the only payment was the one I made for the groceries at the store down the street," she said, tongue firmly in cheek. "Not to mention laundry soap and bandaids."

There was a brief silence. "I see," the man said. "You must be Doctor Gardener." He sounded dubious of her title.

"Yes," she said. "I work with Doctor Nolan."

"Ah." Awkwardness replaced annoyance and disbelief. "I see. House . . . he's okay?"

"And you are?" Dana asked, all sweetness. House snickered.

"Uh—Doctor James Wilson. I'm an old friend."

"I see," Dana said, sounding doubtful, deliberately imitating Wilson's attitude.

"Yeah okay, I deserved that," Wilson said, surprising her. "Listen, do you need anything? I can swing by at lunch—"

House held out his hand. Dana gave him the receiver. "No," he said, and hung up. "Problem solved."

"You know he'll come by anyway," Dana guessed. House dipped his head in acknowledgment.

"We'll get a free meal, and he'll have a chance to scope you out. Win-win."

"What do I get out of it?" she asked, amused.

"Besides the entertainment value?" He flashed her a smile, brief but genuine. She caught her breath at the way it transformed his features just for that moment, showed the strong and vulnerable man inside the formidable fortress he'd built. "Not much."

_Somehow I doubt that,_ she thought, but said nothing.

_Waltz in B minor, Opus 69, no.2, Frederic Chopin_

_(I grew up with the Artur Rubenstein recording so it's my favorite, but there are many fine recordings of this beautiful piece-give it a listen)_

_Aria, Goldberg Variations, BWV 988, J. S. Bach_

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. **_


	5. Session 3, part 3

_**(Dana's stay at House's apartment continues. Hope you enjoy it. -B)**_

It was twelve-thirty almost on the dot when the doorbell rang. House gave Dana a wry look, brows raised.

"Delivery guy's here," he said. "You do the honors."

The man standing in the hall, his London Fog trenchcoat dripping rainwater on the mat, was the antithesis of House in almost every way—open-faced with boyish good looks, an engaging smile and warm brown eyes that took her measure in an instant. Dana couldn't help but admire the skill of his discreet but thorough once-over, no lingering over boobs or crotch, though he took in the full view. She opened the door wider. "Doctor Wilson, I presume," she said, and reached out to take the cut-down cardboard box full of grease-stained paper bags he carried.

"I've got it, thanks. I am indeed the infamous Wilson," he said, following her into the apartment. "You're Doctor Gardener, of course."

"Yes. A pleasure to meet you." She moved out of the way as Wilson walked in, his head turning as he focused on House, who glowered back at him. Wilson's eyes narrowed, but all he said was

"How's the patient?"

Dana nodded at the couch. "Ask him yourself," she said with a smile, and took the box, this time without resistance. "I'll dish up while you get settled."

She could hear the two men talking as she put plates to warm in the oven and began to open containers. The easy give and take, the rise and fall in volume, told her the friendship was an old and intimate one. Still, she sensed some kind of tension between them, something unspoken but present in everything they said and did. _Maybe Gregory will tell me later, _she thought, and began to load a tray with food.

To her complete lack of surprise, Wilson took the tray from her when she came into the living room. He offered her a seat and waited until she had selected a modest lunch before he chose something for himself. House of course was oblivious to these niceties; he'd already demolished two _pakoras_ and was reaching for more by the time Dana had taken her first bite of lamb curry._  
_

"You gonna leave some for the rest of us?" Wilson asked dryly.

"You snooze you lose," House replied, and took the rest of the _paneer_ _pakoras_ onto his plate along with the lion's share of curry. Dana reached over and stole back two _pakoras_. He glared at her, but his gaze held a hint of humor. "Hey!"

"Possession's nine-tenths of the law," Dana said, and took a bite. Wilson chuckled.

"I think you've met your match." He gave her a speculative look. "Cuddy said Nolan suggested you work with this overgrown juvenile delinquent."

"I have my own practice but I do consultations," Dana said. She wasn't surprised by the gossip. "Most of them are specialty referrals."

"'Specialty'?" Wilson sounded puzzled.

"She's a dominatrix," House said. Wilson choked on his _tandoori_ chicken.

"I—you-_what__?_" he said when he could speak. His brown eyes were wide, but there was just a hint of speculation there too underneath the shock.

"I use a variety of methods to help people explore phobias and traumatic events or memories," Dana said, unfazed. She was well used to people's reactions regarding her choice of profession. "My work is mainly counseling survivors of various events with talk therapy, but I also help victims of abuse and those with phobias and post-traumatic stress disorder using bondage and other techniques. My patients vary in age and experience, so a wide range of tools is called for."

"You . . . you use bondage and domination. And-and sex," Wilson said. His gaze slid to House and back to her again; she could almost hear the synapses sparking as his imagination powered into overdrive. "That's . . . effective?"

"More than you'd ever believe," House said, his tone deliberately provocative.

"The therapy is designed for the individual," Dana said. A sudden impulse of mischief provoked her to lean forward a bit and lock gazes with Wilson. "For instance, I think _you_ think you're very good at controlling your environment and yourself as well. You work hard to make sure the outcome is what you believe you need, and you rarely let go of that iron grip of yours, even though you don't hesitate when self-sacrifice is required. But if you came to me, the first thing I'd do—after I made you strip off that very charming Brooks Brothers suit and everything under it, of course—would be to tie you to a nice comfy chair with some lovely black silk restraints I bought just the other day. Mmmm . . ." she sighed, "they're so soft, like cool water against your skin . . . and once I made sure you weren't able to move, I'd drop some chocolate in your lap—you know, Guittard or maybe a bit of Saint Dominique single source, something dark and just a little sweet. I'd let it melt while we talked about how obsessions and micro-managing keep you from finding real power and joy in your life. Then I'd . . ." She paused. A breathless hush had descended in the room. ". . . clean you up," she said in a throaty whisper.

Wilson stared at her in awed silence. The chicken fell off his fork unnoticed.

"Hot _damn_," House said in reverent tones. "Can I watch?"

Dana sat back. "All cases are confidential," she said demurely. Wilson swallowed.

"I'll just bet," he muttered. "My _god_." He glanced at her and then at House, color rising in his cheeks. House looked a little smug.

It was a bit later, after Wilson had left (she had offered him her business card, which he'd accepted without a word or even a look in her direction) that Dana said, "I shouldn't have teased him."

"Are you kidding?" House shook his head. "You just gave him the biggest thrill of his life."

"Pretty sad life then," Dana said. She shook the logs down a bit in the grate and added another one, enjoying the resultant wave of warmth.

"You have no idea." House settled into the couch. "He's back with his first ex. That's so completely messed up it's beyond belief. Thinking about taking him on?"

"I doubt he'll call. He's too freaked out by the whole idea. Giving up control would mean losing a lot of other things he values more than freedom." She settled the blanket over him.

"You're not joining me?"

"I have a couple of patients to talk to via phone sessions and some emails that need replies." Dana picked up her netbook.

"Reschedule." House studied her, his gaze impassive. "I need you more."

"If you can say that I don't think you really do," Dana said wryly, but she relented and bent down to kiss him. "Get some rest," she said. "I'll make it worth your while later. For now I'm going to borrow your bedroom again."

"But I'm not in it!" he protested. Dana rolled her eyes and headed down the hall.

It was late afternoon when she finished the last session and sent off another email, then shut down the computer, set it aside and stretched, yawning. She lay back and folded the comforter over her, intending to take a brief nap; the grey day and her early morning made her sleepy.

When she woke a bit later, it was to a sense of someone lying next to her in the dark. She stirred and smiled as a hand touched her face. She moved closer, a wordless request for more. The hand slid behind her head, lean fingers threading through her hair as lips touched hers, tentative at first, then more insistent. She moved over a little and put her hand on her partner's hip, drawing him to her, sliding her hold to the curve of his backside. That earned her a small chuckle.

"Are you actually copping a feel?" House's breath was soft and warm against her mouth. Dana gave him a gentle squeeze, mindful of bruises.

"How can I resist?" she said, and couldn't help but smile when he cupped her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple.

They made love slow and easy, with plenty of touching and gentle exploration. Dana let House set the pace; he had improved in body, mind and spirit over the last twelve hours but he was still recovering, and she needed to be careful. His fear of contact had abated with her because she was now something of a known quantity, and that was a step forward, if a qualified one. Still, if she tried to protect him he would push her away; better to allow him the freedom to decide for himself how much he could do.

He kissed her, small, infinitely tender little caresses, nibbling on her bottom lip as his hands stroked her skin and traveled over her sides, brought her close. She loved the feel of his lean body pressed to hers, the way he moved with her as they joined; she thoroughly appreciated his making sure she came with him to climax, their soft cries and groans mingled there in the darkness as they shuddered and clung together at last, their hurried breathing slowing as they basked in afterglow.

They lay quiet for some time afterward, content to enjoy their closeness. _I've missed this,_ Dana thought as House trailed his fingers over her arm. _Missed having someone next to me, someone I like . . . _

"What are you thinking?" He rested his cheek against her hair. Dana smiled.

"That this is very nice," she said. He made a noise that could have been a laugh.

"Understatement of the year," he said. Dana savored the way his voice rumbled in that gravel-over-silk baritone she'd already come to associate exclusively with him.

"It's been a long time," she said softly. "I think neither of us exactly planned for this to happen, which makes it all the better." She snuggled in a little closer.

"You have sex on a regular basis," House said, his tone somewhere between derisive and tender.

"Yes, but that's work. It is," she said when he snorted. "I like it for the most part, but it isn't what this is."

"And what would that be?" House sounded guarded. Dana put her hand on his chest.

"Two people enjoying each other," she said. After a moment he nodded.

"Yeah," he said, quiet and low. There was a note of bewildered wonder in the single word that made Dana's heart ache for him. His fingers stroked her gently.

They opted for reheated leftovers and video games. House showed her how to play Pole Position and she surprised both of them by winning her first game.

"Beginner's luck," House scoffed, but one corner of his mouth quirked upward. Dana kissed his cheek and handed the controls to him.

"Show me how it's done," she said, and rested her head on his good shoulder, content to watch.

Much later, as they lay together in the dark once more, House said "this changes everything, you know."

Dana didn't pretend not to understand. "Yes, I know."

"So . . . will you refer me to someone else?" He sounded resigned.

"Why would I do that?" she asked, surprised by the question.

"Plenty of reasons." He was silent a moment. "Do I really have to list them for you?"

"I have no reason to discharge you as a patient simply because we've spent a day or two together outside your appointments."

"Then this was just some errand of mercy after all," House said finally.

"_No_," Dana said in mild exasperation at his unending stubbornness. "I'll admit to being concerned about you. Your health and well-being mean a great deal to me. But I could have left last night if that was all I cared about." She took his hand in hers. "What's more important is I'm finding that I like being with you, Gregory. I enjoy your company."

"No you don't," he said. Under the scorn was pain, old and ingrained; Dana caught her breath at the sound of it.

"Then why am I planning to stay until Monday morning?" She brought his hand to her lips for a kiss.

"You're worried about my mental state," he said, but this time he sounded more hesitant. Dana put his hand to her cheek.

"I think you need to talk about what happened, and if you want to do so with me I'd be happy to listen. But if not, I'd encourage you to talk to Darryl and leave it at that."

He snorted. "Huh. Some therapist you are."

"I'm being honest with you," she said, "and you're being obstinate, but I'd expect nothing less." She kissed his palm. "I do want to keep an eye on you, but I also want to be with you and I have the chance, if you'll allow it."

"What if I tell you to leave?" House said after a few moments frowning silence. "What happens to our sessions then? You're saying you wouldn't hold it against me?" She felt him withdraw a bit physically as well as mentally. _He's preparing himself for rejection,_ she thought.

"I'd be disappointed, but I wouldn't nurse a grudge," Dana said. "No matter what happens here I'd still be willing to help you." She took a chance. "Do you want me to leave?"

His hand tightened on hers, an echo of his grip when he'd asked if she was an hallucination. She could feel him waging a similar internal war of some sort, struggling to believe her. The intensity of the battle saddened her. "No," he said at long last, "no," and drew her close. "Stay," he whispered.

Dana put her arms around him. "I will," she said softly. He put his face in her hair, nuzzling her. A moment later she heard a muffled sigh, almost a sob but not quite. She said nothing, only held him.

After a while he began to tell her the events of that night prior to her finding him in the emergency bay. He didn't go into great detail, but what he said was enough to change her initial astonishment into indignation and growing anger at the way he had been treated. Demanding that a disabled diagnostician, still in therapy after a fairly recent stay in a psychiatric hospital, treat disaster victims and crawl around in unstable piles of rubble, was her idea of complete obliviousness, to say the very least. _I'm going to have a little talk with his boss soon,_ she thought.

"There's more," she said when he fell silent at last. "Before the disaster—something between you and Wilson, an argument or words."

"That's nothing new," he said, his tone dismissive.

"But whatever happened was bigger than usual, wasn't it?" She dared to push a little harder. "Tell me."

"Why do you want to know?"

"Well, I _am_ your therapist," she said dryly. "Just because I don't have you tied up at the moment doesn't mean I'm not interested in anything that delays or compromises your healing."

"So everything I say is being analyzed." House sounded both offended and secretly amused.

"Of course it is. Professional hazard," Dana said, smiling a little. "But you knew that when you decided to let me stay."

"_Touche_. Or whatever it is you bondage freaks say when you're right." He was silent a moment. "He kicked me out."

Dana paused. "Wilson—you were living with him?"

"After Mayfield . . ." House sighed and eased a little closer. "Nolan wanted someone to keep an eye on me, help with the transition back to the world of the living. Wilson volunteered. He'd been indulging in his usual delusions by staying in his dead girlfriend's place, but decided it was time to move on and bought a loft." He hesitated. "I was there a few weeks when he started seeing his first ex-wife again. It was fairly clear they wanted me out, but Wilson couldn't handle any misunderstandings that might cause a delay, so he told me to leave. Well, he asked me, actually. He usually doesn't have the balls to tell anyone to do something, and make it stick." He was silent a moment. "I came back here since I still owned the apartment."

"You kept it just in case," Dana guessed, and felt House nod slowly. That explained the air of neglect she'd noticed when they'd first arrived. A surge of outrage shook her. With an effort she pushed it deep inside. Her first priority was House, not going after the people around him . . . but when she had the opportunity, she'd be talking to both Cuddy and Wilson, and soon.

"I see," she said, keeping her tone neutral. "Okay, thanks for telling me."

Eventually House relaxed, though his breathing hitched now and then. When it became slow and even Dana brought the covers over them both and listened to the muted sound of rain falling, her thoughts fading as sleep claimed her too.

Sunday morning turned up cool but bright and sunny. Dana eased out of bed, brushed her hair, got dressed, shrugged into her jacket and let herself out of the apartment. There was a small convenience store half a block over; she enjoyed the walk, the spring day unfolding all around her. Yesterday's rains had washed away the last traces of winter's dullness, leaving new green grass and budding leaves in its wake.

She bought a _New York Times_, an _Inquirer_ and a container of half and half. _There's nothing like Sunday papers and breakfast, _she thought, smiling. The breeze stirred her hair, soft and sweet. _A little music, a little sunshine . . . we'll see how it goes._

When she returned to the apartment she put the papers on the coffee table, then rummaged around and found her iPod. House's stereo had a docking station; she put her mp3 player in it and selected a JJ Cale playlist. With the volume on low she went into the kitchen, put on a blue apron she found folded up in the towel drawer, and set about making breakfast, starting with coffee.

She was about to put a pan of bacon strips in the oven when a noise from the doorway caught her attention. House stood there watching her. Dana waited for him to grouse about being wakened so early but he said nothing, just looked at her.

"Good morning. It's a beautiful day," she said at last, and winced at the trite statement. She closed the oven door and stood facing him.

"I thought you left," he said quietly. His gaze fell away from hers. Dana blinked.

"Left?" she said, confused. "Well yes—I went out to get the Sunday papers—"

"You weren't there when I woke up."

"I was just . . ." she said, and stopped as the enormity of what he was truly saying hit her. "_Non_," she said, deeply distressed by the pain she'd caused without meaning to. "Greg, _je ne voudrais pas_—I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't lie just to make it easier for me to leave." She came forward and reached out to take his hands. He didn't pull away but his touch was passive, unresisting.

"Why not?" he asked. _Other people have._ She heard the unspoken thought as clearly as if he'd said it aloud.

"Because I want to be here with you," she said. After a long silence he swallowed and gave a single nod. His fingers tightened on hers; they trembled just a little. Dana felt a little rush of admiration for his courage.

"Okay," he said quietly. His expression held wary hope. Dana stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

"Good," she whispered against his lips, and felt them curve upward just a little.

Breakfast was sweet and easy. She made him _pain perdu_. "One of my first memories of living in Paris is my _maman_ teaching me this recipe," she said, soaking baguette slices in the half and half beaten with an egg and a little honey. "I like to add a split vanilla bean to the cream, but extract is good in a pinch."

"It's a heart attack on a plate," House said. He lowered his brows and glowered at her, but his eyes held a glint of amusement. "I see your sinister plan now. You're trying to kill me with a massive coronary."

"That's why you don't make it every day, just now and then for someone you know will appreciate the effort." Dana laughed when he shook his head. "You'll see."

She had her reward when House took his first bite. His expression was priceless. "I think you just found a way to put sex on a fork," he said after a substantial second mouthful. Dana chuckled and filched a piece of bacon.

"Worth waking up for," she said, and squeaked in surprise when he reached out and tugged on her apron, pulling her to him gently. His kiss tasted of maple syrup, honey and vanilla, his tongue stroking hers as his free hand slid over the small of her back.

"That's true," he said, and she knew he wasn't talking about breakfast. A glow of something suspiciously like happiness filled her.

"I'm glad," she said, and kissed him back, something he clearly enjoyed.

"How old were you when your mother died?" he asked a bit later, watching her wash up the dishes.

"Five. She was killed in a street accident. One day she was there, the next . . ." Dana put a plate in the rack. "And before you ask, yes, that was a deciding factor in my choice of work. I know what it's like to lose someone so suddenly . . . it's as if the breath is pulled out of you and you can't get it back." She wiped her hands on a paper towel. "You never really lose that first moment of realization. The pain can destroy your life if you don't get help."

"At least you know your motivations." Under the mockery there was a faint edge of respect. Dana took it for the compliment it was, and tucked his reaction away to study later.

After breakfast they dealt with the shoulder dressing change, then crashed out on the couch and perused the papers, her iPod on shuffle now in the background. One window had the blinds open enough to allow in some sunlight. Dana was delighted to see House moving with less stiffness, his expression a little more relaxed; the gouge was starting to heal, his bruises fading from purple and blue to yellow and green. He settled in, taking the _Inquirer_ sports section first. She selected the Op-Ed pages.

"Do you mind if I read out loud to you now and then?" she said after a few minutes. "It helps me process things."

"Like I want to hear some moron's opinion on politics," he growled.

"I did make breakfast," she said. He rolled his eyes.

"Extortionist. Don't expect an answer."

"You know you won't be able to resist," Dana said, enjoying his teasing.

She read him letters to the editor and laughed when he mocked the faulty or non-existent logic, grammar and syntax. He grumbled over game scores and the lack of foresight and ability on the part of coaches and players. She moved on to the Book section to discuss new releases and reviews, and savored his perceptive insights disguised as sharp, lethal one-liners. They found they both relished a battle of wits, although Dana considered his trumping her point with a kiss to be cheating on his part.

"Not that I'm complaining," she said. House gave her a considering look, his blue eyes bright.

Eventually he turned on the tv and found a baseball game. Dana put a pillow against his good thigh and lay down with her head propped on it, reading. When his arm came around to hold her in a loose clasp, his hand on her hip, she smiled at the subtle sense of being cherished.

The afternoon slowly faded into the darkness of a chilly spring evening. They decided on pizza for dinner and debated toppings; House called it in and added a double order of onion rings while Dana closed the blinds and put the last of the firewood into the grate. With the sun setting the fugitive warmth of the day had faded quickly.

"I'll have to bring you more," she said, watching the kindling do its work. "A friend of mine has an old apple orchard on his property. Every couple of years I get a nice stack of limbs and branches from him after the pruners do their work. I'd be happy to share."

"Sensualist," House sneered, but she heard the amusement inside the accusation. Dana tilted her head and offered him a sly smile.

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

That night they lay together, not speaking, just holding each other close. Dana could not avoid a feeling of sadness. What had started out as a rescue mission had turned into something else, and now they both faced the reality of leaving this moment and going back to their everyday lives and work. _But we aren't at the end just yet. _She turned her attention to the man lying next to her, the warmth of his flesh against hers, the pleasing male scent of him, his breath ghosting over her cheek. It was all she needed for now. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	6. Session 4

**_(WARNING: there are potential childhood abuse memory triggers in this chapter. If you have difficulty with abuse recollections, you might want to skip the chapter and wait for Session 5, part 1, which will be posted on Thursday. -B)_**

_May 7th_

It is two weeks after the crane disaster and Dana's consequent brief sojourn at his place. House has seen her in session twice since then, and they've spoken on the phone. Not just appointment confirmations either—she's called him several times to talk and even spent the weekend at his place, something no one has ever done with him before, or wanted to do. It was actually . . . _enjoyable._ He is here now because he has an appointment and also because he wants to see her, a truth he hasn't admitted out loud, but it's there all the same.

At the moment however he's regretting showing up. He is naked of course, placed in the middle of the stage, sitting on a stool. It's actually fairly comfortable; the seat is well-padded and supports him, easing the pressure on his bad leg. That's a good thing because his hands are tied loosely behind his back and the silk ties secured to the rungs. His feet are bound in place too, thus making it impossible for him to move. He'd watched her fastening his ankle bindings to the wood, her touch light and deft, ensuring he was held immobile without hurting him or compromising his circulation.

But that was before she blindfolded him, something he always dreads. His heart rate is up and his breathing too shallow; it's making him light-headed.

"It's all right," Dana—or rather, M'lady says. There's a difference between the two and he knows it; here in this moment, the dom is in charge. Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, her thumb stroking his skin slow and gentle. "No pain, just me touching you." She pauses. "May I proceed?"

He manages a nod. The fear is less now than it was when he first began seeing her a few months ago; in his everyday life he's actually able to handle having someone brush against or bump into him without descending into panic, and he can even stand the thought of going out to do shopping, as long as he does it late at night when the store is far less crowded. But this—enclosed in darkness, vulnerable and helpless—terrifies him more than he can say. He takes a shaky breath.

"Okay." Her small hand moves in a little circle, offering a last bit of comfort. "Let's begin." She gets up and leaves him. His fear rises and he can't help testing his bonds, swallowing as they flex but don't loosen. He is well and truly trapped.

"Don't forget the safe word," M'lady says softly, and just that quickly, his fear subsides—it doesn't disappear, but with her quiet reminder, he remembers that he has the final say in how far the session goes. As he draws in another deep breath to relax she places something next to him, a small table or tray most likely, guessing from the ambient sounds. He tries to look at it out of reflex, but the blindfold is opaque with no gaps. "I'm going to present you with something, and you tell me what you think it is."

This session stands at the threshold of an ancient, vast and much-hated territory: facing the unpredictable and often abusive event. He remembers the frozen agony of ice baths, afternoons spent under a broiling sun mowing lawns or pulling weeds without respite of shade or water, slaps across the face even when he wasn't being a smartass, hard rough hands pounding his body, causing injury and pain under the guise of occasional boxing lessons sprung on him without notice—all experiences he had to endure without any chance at escape, at least until he was old enough and strong enough to fight back.

"Gregory." M'lady's gentle voice pulls him back to the present. "What are you thinking of?"

"How . . . how much it sucked being a kid, not—not knowing what would happen next." He winces at the halting words.

"My lady," she reminds him. He heaves an impatient sigh.

"M'lady." He makes it a caress instead of a joke, and is rewarded with a kiss. Just a brush of her lips over his, but it's sweet and lingering, and hints at other things they might do once the session is over.

"Nothing bad will happen here." He nods, knowing she's being truthful. He's only used the safe word once, but the result was immediate. He still can't believe it worked just as she said it would. Now he has to fight the temptation to use it just because he can.

"All right, I'll give you a freebie." She leans in and kisses his cheek. "That was your first official touch. What was it?"

"Your lips, M'lady," he says, and dares to make a joke. "Next time I'll get a little tongue action."

She laughs softly. The clench of anxiety deep inside him relaxes a bit at the sound. "If you've earned it. Now," there is a pause, and something strokes his cheek where she kissed him, trails over his neck and down his chest. "What's this?"

There's a fragrance emanating from whatever it is she's using. "Lavender," he says. "Fresh, not dried." The scent is spicy-sharp, clean and pleasing. He savors it and remembers Dana's clothing often has a faint aroma like this one. "I think M'lady has a garden."

"Nicely done," she says. "And yes, I do, at my place in the country. I'd like to show it to you someday." She draws the soft spike of flowers over his mouth, a fleeting, light stroke, and he thinks of her kissing him, her lips like the velvet of the tiny leaves.

A flogger is next. The now-familiar rhythmic, gentle slap and trail of the thongs across his upper back brings echoes of his father's belt, but in a way that exorcises the pain and leaves exhilarating pleasure in its place. When M'lady lays a lingering little trail of soft kisses from the nape of his neck to the top of his spine he groans, his penis beginning to stir in response.

"Flogger and extras," he says before she asks. Something touches his chin and tips his face up—the handle of the instrument, smooth and warm.

"Impertinent. Wait for the question." She sounds stern but not angry. A moment later she opens his mouth and puts something on his tongue. Juicy tart-sweetness floods his tastebuds. "What is it?"

"Peach preserves," he says, and welcomes her kiss. It tastes of her and of summer, ripe and rich and sultry. By the time it ends he strains forward, wanting more. His belly tightens with need.

"Patience," M'lady says. She's smiling again, he can hear it in her voice, damn her. "Now, tell me what this is."

A fugitive lightness tickles his forehead, flutters over his cheek to his chin, then to his chest, flicking his nipples and surprising a sound out of him, almost a giggle but not quite. It moves along his collarbone to his arm, leaving a faint, erratic trail to his bound wrists. It's so quick and elusive he can't tell what it is; frustrated, he struggles to use his senses to solve the puzzle. The thing runs the length of his good leg, circles his knee. He hears a slight rustle.

"Feather!" he says in triumph. The tip tickles his erection, stroking the shaft so that he shudders. "It's a feather, M'lady," he modifies his answer, hoping a show of obedience will get him his reward a little faster.

"Excellent. Now . . . how about this?"

Half a dozen questions later he's eagerly anticipating what will come next, his fear reduced to a sort of low-grade anxiety, hardly noticeable by his standards, almost pushed aside by his need for release. The blackness is no longer terrifying; with her there guiding him through the use of his other senses, he's actually having something that could very loosely be classified as something like fun.

"Well done," M'lady says finally. She moves behind him and lightly presses her body to his. She's naked as well, and when she reaches around to take him in hand her breasts ease against him, so full and soft he aches with the urge to hold them and suckle her charming little nipples, an activity he never fails to enjoy during their nights together. "When you walk into a crowded environment, treat it like a game," she whispers in his ear. "Find one sound, one fragrance, one taste, one touch, or one sight and focus on it while everything else stays in your peripheral awareness. Will you try?"

"Yes," he says, almost unable to speak.

"My lady," she says with mock sternness. He groans and she laughs softly. "Now, a final guess. What is this?" Something is dabbed on his bottom lip. He sweeps it with his tongue and can't help but smile in wry amusement at the subtle, faintly floral taste.

"Lube, M'lady," he says. She kisses his bald spot.

"Very good," she is saying, but he doesn't really hear her because of the sweet, slow strokes her slick fingers and palm are administering now. Her body rubs his, up and down, slight movements that drive him wild. Bit by bit she brings him to the edge, her free hand circling his nipples, fingers trailing over his belly, his sides, her arm slipping about him in a gentle embrace when he finally comes, gasping as release and intense pleasure wash through him in waves. Slowly he leans back against her while she holds him, not saying anything, just there. Her touch is welcome and comforting; he soaks it up, amazed at how good it feels to have someone support him, both literally and figuratively. It's been so long since he's allowed someone this close—no, that's not true. He's never let anyone get past this many masks, not even Stacy. A part of him is still wary and that might never change; but in this moment he trusts her almost to completion, and it feels both daunting and freeing at the same time, like jumping out of a plane in the belief the parachute on your back will open and carry you to safety. He wants to stay in this place forever, though he knows it won't last longer than his next breath.

After a little while she lets him go and kneels to release the silk ties. When he is free she rubs his wrists and ankles, though he has only a couple of pink pressure marks from pulling which fade quickly, and there's no consequent numbness or tingling. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to use her as a support when she helps him stand, his arm about her waist. Together they walk from the stage to the hallway, and from there to their bedroom, bright with morning sunshine.

"Did your father lock you in a darkened room when he wanted to punish you?" Dana asks him a bit later, as they lie together on the big bed. Her hand holds his, cool and dry. He nods.

"When I was younger . . ." He pauses, remembering. "Closets, mainly. It was easier to control me in a small space."

She doesn't attempt to comfort or reassure him, and for that he's glad. "How often?"

"Not very. It was special discipline, reserved for the worst offenses." He concentrates on the feel of her body next to his, her skin soft and warm, like silk under his fingertips. "Mostly for ingratitude."

Dana turns her head to look at him. In the slanting sunbeams her hair gleams honey-gold. "You didn't express sufficient appreciation to make your father happy?"

_You don't know how good you have it. _He remembers the familiar words and swallows on a dry throat. "Yeah."

"How long were you kept in the dark?" She is calm, unemotional. It helps him get the words out.

"The longest was two days. Mom would . . ." He takes a breath, exhales slowly. "If she was home, she would talk to him, persuade him to let me out. That time she was away for the weekend, visiting Oma or something." The fear is there, waiting in the old memory. "He locked me in and he just . . . left me." He hears the hitch in his voice and loathes his weakness. "At first I tried to get his attention, but after a few hours it was obvious he'd decided I was non-existent. That was before I understood he could get mad and not speak for weeks or even months on end."

"How old were you?" Dana's voice is very quiet, barely more than a whisper.

"Four." He feels the confusion, the bewilderment and panic gradually becoming a sort of dull acceptance. "I was bad," he says, and realizes he's spoken out loud.

"You were _four_. How long did this continue?"

He struggles to recall, caught up in the memory. "I was eight the last time. By then I was getting too smart for such a simple solution. I'd already learned to pick locks."

"Good for you," Dana says. She means it. A little of the pain lifts at her words. He looks at her. She returns his regard, her grey eyes steady. "Are you afraid of enclosed places?"

He thinks about it. "No. Just—" He stops.

"Blackness," she says. That surprises him a bit. "I've slept with you, Gregory. You've never shown any problems being in a darkened room. But when you're wearing the blindfold you panic."

"Lack of control. And I was distracted," he says, pointing out the flaws in her theory.

"To some degree on both counts. But I'm willing to bet even if you chose to put that length of silk on yourself, you'd have much the same reaction."

He thinks about it. Maybe she's right. "Bullshit."

That makes her smile. "Something to consider." She puts a hand on his chest, a gesture she uses often with him. It's partly to comfort, but also to claim. He rather likes it, though of course he won't tell her.

After a time they end up on the terrace. The glass doors are open, welcoming the softer weather. It's late morning now, with plenty of sun and warm breezes to be had. They're drinking coffee and enjoying fresh cinnamon rolls when he blurts out "I want to do it over again, only more to the point." He doesn't look at her, doesn't want to say any of this, but he's determined to get it out before his courage fails him. What he's considering is total insanity, and if he thinks about it much longer the larger part of him that doesn't want to confront anything from his past ever again will win out. "I want you to be there when he puts me in the closet."

Anyone else would have been confused, or cracked a stupid obvious joke, or asked him idiotic questions. Dana just says "All right."

And so half an hour later he's sitting on the stage once more, but this time he's not bound to a stool, nor is he naked; he's wearing the light silk robe Dana keeps here for him, and he's quite comfortable in the easy chair she's brought up for him to use. She is sitting directly in front of him on the stool, their knees almost touching. She offers the blindfold; he puts it on himself and makes sure no light leaks in anywhere. When he ties the knot in the back his hands are shaking, but he manages it, making it tight and secure.

"Ready?" Dana asks. He nods. "Okay." Her hands come to rest on his, light as air. "Focus on your breathing. In and out, slow, deep . . ."

She brings him gently through the stages of consciousness, moving him down until he's almost floating, until he faces the hard, sharp-edged stone of fear lodged deep inside him.

"Gregory," her soft voice whispers, "you're four years old . . ." The softness gives way to cold anger. " . . . and you haven't shown any gratitude."

_("Stubborn brat!"_

_Big hands grab the collar of his shirt and lift him up, half-strangling him. He dangles before a huge red face with enormous eyes that glare at him, full of rage. The mouth opens, revealing big white teeth. His father has turned into a monster. Terror renders him helpless._

"_I'll teach you to defy me, you ungrateful little bastard! You need to learn about consequences!"_

_He is dragged to the front hall closet. Frightened, he tries to cling to the doorjamb when he's stuffed in among the coats and boots, but his fingers are pried free and the door slams shut. He hears the lock turn and fear floods him. He can't stay here in the dark, his father can't leave him! He bangs on the door. _

"_Daddy! Daddy, _please_!"_

_No answer. His father's brisk footsteps fade until there's nothing, not even the sound of someone moving. He listens, his breath hitching in his chest, but all he hears is silence. What if he's alone in the house? What if his father walked out and won't ever come back? Terror turns to full-blown panic. He kicks and slams at the door, frantic to make it open. It doesn't budge. _

"_DADDY! Let me ooooouuut! I'll be good, I'll be good, I'll be good!"_

_For what feels like an eternity he sobs and fights and yells, but there is no response. It is then he understands his father isn't coming back. Abruptly all the strength goes out of his legs. He half-collapses, half-sits on the floor. Jackets and coats brush the top of his head, boots on either side of him. The stuffy, stale-smelling blackness engulfs him whole. _

_After a while he dares to move and something soft falls on him. In startled reflex he pushes it away, but it's not a creature trying to gobble him up. It is his mother's good winter cloth coat, the one she only wears when she and Daddy are going someplace special. He touches it, then lays it flat, lies down and curls up inside it, surrounded by the soft silky lining; it smells of her perfume, a small comfort in the nothingness where he's trapped. Worn out, he drifts off to sleep._

_When he wakes up he's hungry and thirsty and he has to pee. He sits up, rubbing his eyes, and tries to orient himself. But the lack of light is too complete; he has no idea which way he's facing. It's as if everything he knows has been taken away. Still, he gets to his feet and reaches out, his hands knocking into the door as he fumbles around. Maybe he can get out—_

_He freezes when he finds the doorknob. Even if it is unlocked, what if it's a trick? What if his father is waiting outside for him to disobey yet again, what would happen then? He remembers Daddy's monster-face, the wide angry eyes and mouth full of teeth, and backs away from the door without even trying to see if it's open. He snuggles in Mommy's coat, pulling it around him like a protective shield._

_For a long, long time he stays there, fighting the growing urge to urinate, the rumble of hunger in his stomach, his dry mouth. The blackness presses down on him, leaching into his body, relentless and irresistible, terrifying. He buries his face in the warm soft lining and tries to think of other things, like the story Mommy read him the night before—__Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel__, one of his favorites, and he likes the pictures too. He tries to imagine himself running a big piece of equipment like that. Maybe someday when he's grown up he will, though he doesn't think so. He watched a big dump truck once as it carried loads of gravel to a construction site, and by the second trip he was bored. He _hates_ being bored . . . Slowly he slips into daydreams of other adventures he's read about, and dozes off._

_When he wakes up again, he knows he's got a big problem. He __has__ to pee, he can't hold it any longer. Slowly he sits up, wincing at the cramp in his belly, and tries to figure out what to do. If he pees his pants it'll get all over whatever he sits or lies on. He knows that because any time he's had an accident he's had to wear wet pants for the rest of the day as a punishment, a thoroughly miserable experience. And he can't just pee on the floor, that's even worse. Better to use a boot, if he can locate one of his. _

_He feels with his hands out, stumbling over shoes and boots and odd objects for which he has no name, and finally finds one of his rubber galoshes. He feels it all over to make sure it's really his, then moves forward until he bumps into the wall, gropes further to find a corner. If he can't see, it's better to have to the boot out of the way so he doesn't knock it over and spill pee everywhere. He pushes things away so there is a bare area, puts his boot in the spot where the two walls meet, tugs down his pants, and is gripped by a dread so powerful he is paralyzed. This is wrong, he _knows_ it's wrong. If he's ever let out of here, Daddy will immediately know what he's done and he'll be punished for ruining his boots. He doesn't know what the consequences of this action will entail, but he has no doubt it will be far more serious than what he's going through now._

_At last out of sheer urgent need he lets go, his breath shuddering at the immense relief of emptying his distended bladder and the sure knowledge he is going to get into even deeper trouble, if that's possible. When he's done he pulls up his pants, crawls back into Mommy's coat and pulls it over him, pretending he's a turtle in its shell way down at the bottom of a deep, dark river._

_He has to pee again later. It's a little easier this time—the bad thing's already done, it doesn't matter now if he does it again. His main concern at the moment is hunger; it's pressing him hard. He puts a hand over his empty tummy as coats ruffle his hair . . . and a voice blooms in his mind like one of Mommy's garden flowers: _check the coat pockets,_ it whispers. He's heard that voice before and it's always told him good things, right things, so he obeys and is rewarded with two pieces of wrapped candy—starlight mints. His mother usually takes a few when she goes to the bank, there's a big bowl of them on a table at the entrance._

_He knows he has to ration his find, so he puts one candy in his mouth and tucks the other one in a pocket of the good winter cloth coat. Then he settles in to savor the sweet taste. It won't fill his empty stomach but it will make him feel better. _

_Slowly he drifts into a sort of half-doze, peppermint lingering sharp and cool on his tongue. He thinks of his mother sitting by his bed, book in hand; he sees her in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, humming along with a song on the radio. There's a tin on the counter shaped like a carousel, filled with oatmeal raisin cookies, his favorite. He wants one so badly . . . His empty belly growls. He tries thinking of food, all his favorites—cookies, hot dogs and hamburgers and potato chips, crispy french fries and Mommy's chocolate cake, but all that does is make things worse. Better to go to sleep._

_When he wakes again hunger is a burning tight fist in his gut. And he's thirsty too, his lips and tongue dry. At one point he's so desperate he tries the doorknob, determined to get out even if his father is waiting for him. The door is still locked. He stands there for a long time, wondering dully if he should try again to push the door open somehow, or just go back to his nest. His hands and feet hurt from his first panicked attempt to free himself; he doesn't want to feel more pain, but if it gets him out . . . _

_He tries shoving at the solid wood, then twisting the knob, but his hands are too small and he just ends up falling down and hitting his forehead on something hard, so that he sees stars and feels wobbly and disoriented. In pain, discouraged and exhausted, he slinks back to his nest and stays there, tears slipping down his cheeks. One good thing about the dark—Daddy can't see him crying. His father says boys don't cry, and when they do they get something to really cry about, which doesn't make any sense at all. But right now he's too tired to try to puzzle it out. _

_A little while later, when he opens his eyes it's to find what looks like a faint, fuzzy bar of light. Startled, he starts to rise and winces as his forehead throbs; when he feels it there's a big tender lump. He eases himself to a sitting position with care. The bar slowly tilts until it's horizontal. It looks like it's right before him. He reaches out. To his amazement he can just barely see his fingers in the dim glow. His hand is illuminated more as he reaches forward. After some exploration he finds a slight gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. That's where the light is coming from—outside._

_He wastes a few minutes trying to get his fingers under the door. As small as they are, they're still too big to fit. After a while he gives up and just watches the light on his skin. For a very long time he does this, until he's too tired to do it anymore. Then he crawls to the coat. He doesn't think of anything; he just closes his eyes and gives up. When he looks later, the light is gone._

_He pees for a third time. The little space is beginning to reek of urine. He's felt the urge to move his bowels but fought it, knowing that such an act would mean certain annihilation. Under no circumstances whatsoever would either parent _ever_ forgive him for pooping outside a toilet; he knows it like he knows his name. His hunger has abated for the moment, but he's so thirsty he feels like he could drink a whole grownup glass of water without stopping. He's tempted to pry at the door but he understands now it's pointless. He wants the light to come back, because it's at least companionship of some kind; he wishes Mommy's coat would turn into his bed, with sheets and pillows and a lamp on the stand, with a plateful of cookies and a big glass of milk and a stack of books waiting to be read . . . He puts his head down. After a few moments his thumb slips into his mouth, something Daddy doesn't like. But Daddy isn't here, and anyway no one can see, not even he himself._

_Gradually he drifts into a sort of daydream. In his imagination he is running down a street and there's a monster chasing him. It doesn't matter where he tries to hide, the monster always finds him. He is about to wriggle underneath a car when suddenly light explodes all around him._

"_What on __earth__-?"_

_He bursts out of his nightmare and scrambles to a sitting position, terror making him clumsy as he grabs Mommy's coat and tries to hide under it. To no avail—it's yanked off and he's hauled to his feet._

"Gregory House!_ You _peed_ in here?" His mother towers over him. He wrenches his arm free and backs away, shaking. She'll take him to Daddy, and then—_

"_Greg . . ." Her voice is softer now. She stretches out her hand and he comes up against a wall, tripping over things in his desperation to escape capture. Beyond her the light from the other room hurts his eyes but he wants to go to it, out of the blackness. And yet he can't see a way to get there without having to risk being snagged and hauled away for more punishment. It's going to happen eventually, but the longer he can put it off-_

"_Greg, honey-it's all right." Mommy drops her arm and crouches down. "Have you . . . have you been in here since I left? Daddy . . . he locked you in?" She sounds funny. He watches her, wary of a trap. After a few moments he nods. Mommy sighs and looks down. "He . . . he didn't let you out this whole time?" He shakes his head and winces as his injured forehead aches._

"_Oh, sweetheart. What did you do?" Her fingers brush his forehead, but he knows she's not asking how he hurt his head. She wants to know how he was bad. It's always her first question when Daddy disciplines him. "Greg . . .you _must_ learn to obey your father." Silence falls. He watches her, but all she does is sit down, her legs crossed. She looks strange. And then he realizes she's crying. _

I made Mommy cry. _This is far, far worse than the blackness or any punishment he can think of. Distress fills him, as painful as the cramps in his bowels and his empty belly. He doesn't know what to do. If he comes closer, he'll be in trouble. But if he doesn't try to do something to make Mommy feel better, he'll be hurting her even more and lately he's begun to understand she's all he has. He wavers, torn between two impossible choices, helpless and hating his inability to do anything about it._

_After a while she wipes her eyes. "Come on, Greg. Let's get this cleaned up before Daddy gets home." She clambers to her feet and moves away, clearly expecting him to follow her. He hesitates; then he faces the inevitability of consequences. What's more, he'll have to tell her he needs to use the bathroom, and that will surely earn him more condemnation. Slowly he moves forward. For the first time he wishes he was a grownup so he could just keep walking past her and do whatever he likes. Someday when he's big that's what he'll do . . .)_

He pulls out of the memory with a shock of shuddering breath. His face is wet; he's shaking like he's in a windstorm. Dana's hands hold his, warm and steady.

"Did I . . . say anything out loud?" he asks after a time. His voice is rough, too loud.

"Yes," Dana says. She sounds suspiciously husky. He frees one of his hands and reaches out, finds her face, strokes his thumb over her cheek. Much to his surprise, there are no tears. When he lowers his hand she takes it again, resting it on her knee. It feels good.

"What happened after your mother returned?"

"We cleaned up the urine. When my father came home, she told him." His voice is flat now, unemotional, but he feels the reflexive roil of decades-old anxiety and bewilderment under the statement of fact.

"I'm sure you were punished," Dana says softly.

"For the next week I spent eight hours a day in the closet," he says. Her hands tighten on his this time.

"Oh my _god_." There is absolute indignant fury in her quiet voice. "You were only four years old."

"My father believed in discipline," he says, feeling a distant surprise at her anger.

"He believed in abuse." Dana's voice is flat now, ice-cold. "You were _four years old._" To his surprise she releases her hold. He feels her fingers on the blindfold as she undoes the knot at the back and removes it. He blinks, goes still when her hands come up to frame his face, her touch infinitely tender, but without a shred of pity or sympathy. He doesn't know how he knows that; he just does. She doesn't say anything. There is wild anger blazing in her storm-grey eyes—indignant outrage on his behalf. It is astonishing and amazing and nothing he's ever seen before in anyone, not for him anyway. On impulse he leans forward and kisses her. When it ends he rests his forehead against hers. He feels hollow and shaky, and beyond that a need to be with someone, to feel skin on skin, hands holding him, closeness. The thought of going home alone frightens him; he's not sure what he'd do if he was on his own, maybe give in and start taking narcotics again, or drink himself into oblivion, or both.

He decides to stay over. Dana schedules their sessions on weekends now so that they can spend as much time together as they like, and has made it plain she welcomes his company. He's glad he doesn't have to return to his apartment. Since she stayed with him after the crane collapse it's less neglected and empty; he keeps basic supplies around now and does his laundry, cooks occasionally, even cleans a little. And yet it's still just a place where he goes to sleep and read his journals or work on cases, except when Dana comes over to stay. Then the quiet rooms come alive with music and talk and companionship, but when she goes away, the light leaves with her. Dana's home is different. It always feels to House as if it's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside-like a TARDIS, a conceit which gives him a secret kick of amusement. The light is there all the time, because she's there.

At the moment they're taking advantage of the delights of the master bathroom, which boasts the most incredible Jacuzzi he's ever seen. He and Dana are positioned in front of corner jets so that warm water swirls around their legs and backs. She's drinking grey Riesling while he's enjoying a shot of Booker's; Beethoven plays in the background, one of the quartets, a decent recording. She is settled in next to him, apparently content to be there despite everything that's happened, always a huge surprise to him. He can't imagine why she bothers, he's no prize by anyone's standard. And still, he's made progress, even he can see it. _I've grown up, _he thinks. _I walked out of the closet of my memories, and I'm doing whatever I like. _Except that's not true—he's moved ahead but not nearly that far, and both sessions today have proven it to him and to Dana too.

"What are you thinking?" Dana asks. Her voice is quiet, but pitched to reach him above the rushing water and music. Her fingers stroke the nape of his neck, an idle caress, tender and slow.

"That I'm not free," he says, more to himself than to her.

"Gregory." Dana sets her wine on the tiled edge of the tub. "You've just begun your work. Freedom isn't something you earn, like a good grade for a paper or a test. It's elusive, ephemeral. It comes to you when you least expect it." Her hand drifts down to rub his back in slow circles. He eases into her touch.

"You're speaking from personal experience," he says, intrigued.

"Yes." She tips her head back to look up at him. In the soft light she looks more beautiful than he's ever seen her, except when they're making love. "Do you want to continue with the work?"

He remembers the terror of the blindfold, the overwhelming pain of old memories, the uncertainty of the future. "No." He sips his wine and slides his hand along Dana's arm. "But I'll do it anyway."

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. :)_**


	7. Session 5, part 1

_August 13th_

Dana looked at her watch and resisted the urge to pace. Fifty-three minutes past the start of the session, and still no House. Even worse, it came on top of three days without any communication from him at all—not so much as a text message. She'd called his cell, his apartment, his office, sent emails and texts, but everything had disappeared into the void with no answer. For the first time since they'd started working together he'd simply vanished, and she had gone from foreboding to outright fear. Over the last couple of weeks he hadn't been acting right. His responses were off, his willingness to open to her and the work shut down somewhat, and he'd been withdrawn and irritable—not unusual for him, but still . . . All patients went through cycles where they were resistant to the healing process. After confronting the memory of his father putting him in the closet she'd expected some resistance and even a step back, but this-this was something else. Powerful apprehension sent a chill down her spine.

_I need to go to his place,_ she decided after another five minutes. _If he's not there, then I'll try the hospital, his team, Wilson, anyone who can point me in the right direction._

She was in the back changing into her street clothes when the doorbell rang. Dana hurried to answer it as she tugged her shirt into place. When she opened the door she stopped dead, words of greeting dying on her lips.

House stood on her step, looking like he hadn't slept in days. He obviously hadn't been anywhere near a shower or clean clothes for that same length of time either, if the smell of stale alcohol, sweat and old urine was anything to go by; his glassy blue eyes were focused on her, making it easy to see the pinpoint pupils. Dana saw shame, guilty defiance and helplessness there too, along with a wordless plea. He didn't move toward her, just waited. It was obvious he expected her to get angry, send him away. A lump rose in her throat—fear and worry transmuted to profound relief that he was alive and relatively whole. It was all that mattered for now.

"_Greg,_" she said softly, "oh, my beautiful man," and came forward without hesitation to embrace him. He tensed as her arms went around him; he didn't reciprocate, but after a few moments he gave a sort of quiet, shuddering sigh. He was still for a long time while she held him. At last he nuzzled his face into her hair in an uncertain way that made her heart ache. He was shaking, a fine little tremor that ran through him like a low-grade electric current.

"Come on," she said finally. "Let's get you cleaned up and comfortable, and then you can tell me what's happened." She moved to his side and slipped her arm about his waist, guiding him into the house.

After he'd taken a lengthy shower and changed into a clean tee and flannel sleep pants, she helped him into their bed and lay down next to him, close but not touching. She knew he wasn't ready for more intimacy, not yet. "You're exhausted," she said. "You need to rest."

"I'm back on Vicodin," he snarled. "Don't act like you don't know!"

"Yes, I know," Dana said. "How long have you been using?"

"Five days," he muttered. She took his hand in hers.

"Are you bingeing or just topping up every few hours?"

"Topping up." He looked at her. "You . . . you understand," he said, more a statement than a question.

"My father was dependent on painkillers toward the end. Tell me what happened."

"So . . . that's it? No lectures, no yelling at me to go to rehab, no moral superiority?" The bitterness in his words was palpable, but his grip on her hand didn't lessen.

"You're recovering from dependence caused by inadequate pain management," Dana said quietly. "Relapses are common. Please tell me what happened."

He thought about it for a few moments. "Cuddy . . . she and I . . ." He fell silent.

"You were lovers."

House looked at her. "That doesn't bother you."

"No," she said, and meant it. "We've both had other people in our lives, Greg. The fact that you work with a former lover is not a big deal. It happens sometimes."

"'Lovers' is a stretch." He hesitated. "Back in college, we had a night together after a lot of mutual flirting. There could have been more, maybe. But I got kicked out of school and that ended anything we might have started." His gaze darted away from hers. "When she hired me after the blood clot and the surgery . . . some of those old feelings were still there."

Dana nodded her head. She'd suspected as much. "Okay. Please tell me the rest."

He licked his lips. "She came to me a couple of weeks ago. Blood in her urine, upper back pain, a few other things . . . She had an ultrasound done. Wilson found a mass in her kidney, about one and a half centimeters, close to the center of the organ."

Dana felt a jolt of shock. She might not think highly of Cuddy for various reasons, but she certainly wouldn't wish cancer on her. "Bloodwork?"

"Everything was inconclusive. They had to biopsy. She asked me . . . asked me to stay with her." He was trembling now. "It wasn't sexual, she-she needed someone to be with her, when she had the surgery, the results—she needed . . . someone . . ." He drew in a breath sharply. "I couldn't do it. Not without-"

"You got overwhelmed." Dana touched his cheek, felt him lean into her hand. "Too much pain." _It was a mistake for her to ask, and for him to agree. There was no way either one of them could handle the tremendous stress her illness created. _

"What's _wrong_ with me?" he said, more to himself than to her. "Why can't I . . . it's so simple, just be with her—"

"It's not simple," Dana said. Unbidden came a memory of sitting next to her father's bed, watching, waiting. "You have to be strong for someone else when they're ill and frightened. It's one of the most difficult things anyone's ever called on to do, Greg."

"I should have said no," he said. "She thought she'd be able to depend on me . . . and then when she found out about the Vicodin, she—she made me leave, she said—she'd forgotten I was an addict, that she couldn't trust me . . . she said it was a mistake—" He swallowed. Dana felt a swell of mingled anger and sadness fill her heart.

"It was too much, for you and her too," she said again quietly. "It happens, Greg." She stroked his cheek gently. "Did you answer her honestly about the drugs?"

"Yeah." He hesitated. "I have them with me."

"Okay. Thanks for being honest with me too." Dana kissed his temple. "Do you want help?"

"What's it going to cost me?" he said, sharp and hard. "What do you want in return?"

"Do you want help?" she asked again, ignoring the provocation.

"I don't—don't know," he said. Now he sounded frightened—terrified. "Dana . . . no rehab. No Mayfield. Please. Can't—_won't_ do that again."

"Okay." She eased a little closer, knowing what it cost this proud man to admit his weakness, to beg. "Let me call Doctor Nolan. If you want to detox—" He flinched. Dana pressed her cheek to his. "Shhh . . . I'll see if we can set things up so you can do it here, but even if we can't, I'll stay with you for all of it."

"You're a moron," he growled at her, but he was shaking now. His arms stole around her. Dana eased him a bit closer.

"I care about you," she said simply. "Do you want to do this?"

"Why are you giving me a choice? I have to do it, goddammit!"

"If you don't choose it for yourself, there's no point in doing anything. I want you to take your time and think about it. The only thing I'll ask is that you stay here while you make your decision. You can't drive, and you shouldn't be diagnosing anyone."

House gave a weak snort of derision. "I've done both under the influence for years."

"That doesn't make it right." She put a hand on his chest and rubbed gently. "Take your time, love."

"What if I decide not to? What the hell will you do then? Give me a hot meal and send me back to Princeton, wash your hands of me?" He pushed back so he could look in her eyes. Dana offered him a slight smile.

"I'll do my best to persuade you to choose to continue your recovery," she said. "But no matter what you decide, I want you here with me. The apartment just isn't a good place for you right now." _And neither is your workplace_, she thought. _I'll have to see about getting you a medical leave of absence._

He stared at her for a few moments; then he nodded. The fear was back, she could tell by the hitch in his breath, the trembling all through his body. She trailed her fingers over his left breast in a slow, gentle circle and felt him relax. "Rest now," she whispered. "I know you've been up for days worrying about this. You need to sleep."

"I need another dose," he said. When she didn't answer he sighed. "I haven't had any since early this morning. If I don't take some, I'll start withdrawal and I'm—I'm not ready—"

Dana put her hand to his cheek. She watched as he fished the bottle out of his pocket, popped the top and shook out two pills, dry-swallowed them. "After this you eat first, even if it's just some dry toast."

He held the bottle gripped tight in his hand. "So you're putting conditions on things already. All that talk about support was just to get me to agree to detox."

"No," Dana said, keeping her voice steady. "I'm not pushing you to choose that. But you have to take care of yourself in any way you can while this is going on, and that includes saving your stomach lining." She hesitated. "I won't enable you either though, Greg. Don't ask that of me. I know—" She stopped when she heard the quiver in her voice. "I know where that path leads," she went on when she was able. "I won't be a part of keeping you on it. That's my choice."

House lay there for a time. Then he nodded. "Fair enough."

"I know we've talked about this several times in the past, but you could use a good pain management specialist," she said softly. "There's a difference between addiction and dependence. I think you cross over into the latter, to be honest."

He glared at her. "And you'll get the same answer from me every time you bring this up. I don't want my damn pain _managed_. I want it gone."

"I know you do. With a good specialist we can find a regimen that will bring you a significant amount of relief without destroying your health or your ability to work, and help you avoid relapses in the future." She reached out, took his hand in hers once more. "I know someone, he took good care of my father's pain. I trust him. He's the best at what he does. Keep that tucked away in the back of your mind while you're thinking about this." She squeezed his fingers gently. "You need to rest. While you do that I'll call Nolan and let him know what's going on."

"_Shit_." Greg exhaled, slow and long. "Yeah, okay."

She waited until he was asleep, his breathing slow and even; then she went into her study and made the call.

"Damn," Darryl said when she gave him the news. "I had a feeling." He sighed. "Sending him back to his old workplace was a mistake on my part. No one there seems to understand how fragile he is emotionally, because he's so good at convincing people he's an unredeemable jerk."

"I'd like to have him detox here-I mean, at the hospital down the road—Holy Redeemer." She held her breath.

"Absolutely not." Nolan spoke sharply. "He's under my care, I have to supervise any medical treatment he receives."

"He says he won't do rehab or go back to Mayfield," Dana said. "Having him get sober here might be the only way we'll get him off the Vicodin."

Nolan did a slow exhale. "I see. That complicates things." He was silent a moment. "He'll need a doctor's supervision."

"I know a physician who's had extensive experience with this kind of thing. He'd be willing to help out and he has privileges at Redeemer. If I could set it up, would you consider it then? I'll have him give you a call."

"That's acceptable," Nolan said finally. "You sure you can handle this?"

"Yes," Dana said. "I can reschedule my appointments without too much trouble. I know this won't be easy, but I'm willing to do it if Greg is."

"All right," Nolan said abruptly after another brief silence. "But I want constant progress reports if he decides to do this, otherwise the deal's off."

"Not a problem," Dana said. "When he wakes up I'll tell him and if he's ready, he'll call you."

"How is he?" Nolan asked quietly.

"Scared. Exhausted. In pain."

"Not surprising. All right. Let me know what he decides."

[H]

He rises to consciousness slowly and finds he's clean and in a warm bed, and someone is sleeping next to him. He knows it's Dana. She took him in; he still can't get over the shock of it. She took him in and she's giving him a choice.

Of course he knows there's really no choice. If he wants his life back again he has to detox. The thought fills him with a terror so profound he chokes on it and coughs, trying to get his constricted chest to loosen up.

"Shhh . . ." Gentle hands bring him back against a warm body. "It's all right, love. You're all right."

"No I'm not," he groans, "dammit, I'm _not_," and he burrows into her embrace, hanging on for dear life.

For a long time he struggles against the fear. It looms over everything, the knowledge that he'll fight so much they'll have to restrain him; his damn thigh will send ice-pick stabs of agony up into his head as his muscles spasm, he'll vomit until there's nothing left, not even bile, and then he'll dry heave and his ribs will ache for days and days; the fever will come and go, making him sweat and freeze by turns. But far worse is the need, the driving, relentless and desperate urge for the drug that goes beyond the pain-relieving function and is nothing but addiction, pure and simple. And the pain, with nothing to relieve the pitted, rusty edge of the blade. That is what he fears the most.

"Darryl says we can set up a room for you at the hospital down the road," Dana says after he tells her what he fears; she coaxed the truth out of him as only she can do. "I know a physician with privileges there, he's helped quite a few people with detox. He'd be willing to supervise. You'd be in a safe environment, and I'll be there with you every step of the way."

"I can't do this," he says against her thick hair, the soft strands fluttering under his breath. "I can't do this."

"You won't be alone. I'll be with you," she says again.

"You don't want that," he says. "I'll say things—do things—"

"I know." She rubs his arm gently. "It doesn't matter. I'll stay anyway."

"_Why?_" he says, bewildered at her behavior. "Why bother?"

"Because you are dear to me," she says. "And you're worth it."

He lies there silent, not knowing what to say. She's wrong, he knows she is.

"I'm not wrong," she says with that uncanny ability she has at times, to read his mind. "You're worth it, Gregory." She kisses his chest. "Tell me what you're afraid of."

"Cold turkey," he says, hiding his face in her hair. Her hand strokes his arm, a slow, tender gesture.

"Maybe we can put you in a medical coma," she says. "I'll talk with Darryl. There's no reason why you have to go through this awake and in pain."

Just for that suggestion alone he loves her more than life itself, though he knows the chances are slim to none that it'll happen. "'m hungry," he mumbles. She continues to caress him.

"What would you like?"

His belly is empty but nothing sounds good, so he chooses a food he knows will stay down and not give him indigestion. "Cereal."

"Okay. I think there's something in the cupboard, cornflakes or wheaties, that all right?" When he nods she sits up and holds out her hand. "Vicodin please."

He stares at her, his stomach knotting. "No."

"When I'm out of the room, it goes with me." She is looking at him with those luminous eyes, worry and affection shining out of them. "You can have it back when I come in, I give you my word."

"You don't trust me," he accuses.

"Once—just once—I left the room when there were medications within my father's reach. When I came back he had taken them all. Later on he said that one moment he was fine, the next he just took them." Her soft voice quivers the way it did earlier, and he knows then she's frightened—not _of_ him, but _for_ him. "Please, Greg."

It is difficult to give her the bottle but he manages it because he knows she's right. When he does she leans in and kisses him. "Back with cereal," she says.

Five minutes later she comes in with a tray, two bowls, a jug of milk and two boxes of cereal. She sets the tray on the bed and puts the bottle next to it. He pushes it toward her with a hand that shakes enough to make the pills rattle.

"You hang onto it," he says. "I'll . . . I'll ask for it when I need it. You're not enabling me, you're keeping me safe." Every cell of his body is screaming at him not to do this, but what's left of his rational mind is begging him to take away that last temptation to end the torment once and for all. Dana lowers her gaze; then she slowly puts the bottle in her pocket.

"All right," she says. "We have corn flakes and Coco-Puffs, your choice."

He looks at the cereal and it hits him. He begins to chuckle weakly, he can't help it. Dana doesn't get it at first. Then she glances at the cereal and the joke registers. A reluctant smile tugs at her lips.

"Oh, stop it. You're not a flake and you're not cuckoo," she says. He takes the Coco-Puffs box and dumps a bunch into the bowl, pours some milk on it, grabs a spoon and digs in.

He feels better with some food in his belly. It's even nicer when Dana snuggles with him afterward. He winds a strand of her honey-gold hair around his finger, delighting in the silken feel of it against his skin.

"I have to do this, don't I?" he says after a long, peaceful silence. Dana kisses the join of his neck and shoulder.

"Yes," she says. "But you still have to choose it for yourself, love." Her arms hold him as if he's something to treasure. "If you need incentive, think about it this way . . . we have so many adventures waiting for us, and I can't wait to explore them with you."

He can't believe what he's just heard. "Why would you want to be with . . . with someone like me?"

"I don't want to be with someone _like_ you, I want to be with _you_," she says.

He groans. "Come on, you know what I mean."

"Because you're dear to me," she says, and rests her cheek on his chest, above his heart. It's a phrase she uses with him frequently, and it offers reassurance as well as puzzlement and a hope in which he cannot allow himself any faith.

"Therapy ends sooner or later," he has to point out.

"That's true. But being together can last as long as we want it to."

That sounds inviting, far better than hearing platitudes about responsibility or his health or how he's disappointing everyone around him. Imagining a future where he isn't alone and in pain, where someone actually seeks out the opportunity to be with him . . . Maybe it's a total fantasy, but it's better than killing himself by inches.

"Okay," he murmurs at last, surrendering to the inevitable, scared but determined. "Okay."

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. _**


	8. Session 5, part 2

_**(For those wanting more of M'lady and House working out the kinks, more's coming up in the next chapter. You could say real life has intruded on their arrangement, so they have to work on dealing with the problems at hand. **_

_**To the anon reviewer who questioned House's willingness to undergo medical coma given the events of Three Stories: thank you for commenting, that's a good insight. I think House expects betrayal with just about any given action. While what happened to him during the coma was horrific, I don't think he'd forego a procedure if his super-rational side told him it would be of benefit. He'd simply expect betrayal to accompany it. It could be a sign of progress and some success on Dana's part that House doesn't do that when she suggests it. Or it could be that he considers betrayal a given and not worth mentioning. I leave it up to you to decide what's going on. :) -B)**_

He doesn't know how long he's been here now, he's lost track of time. He can't hold onto the number in his head. It keeps sliding away, just beyond his grasp. But if he had to guess based on previous experience, he'd say three days. He's in padded restraints, one arm is tied to a board so he won't pull out his IV, he's been cathed, and there's a rubber sheet under him for accidents and the inevitable vomiting that comes and goes, along with the fever and the pain. He's been given Ativan and anti-nausea meds, and the IV offers hydration and some nutrition, so things aren't as bad as they could be, but he's not exactly enjoying the experience.

Still, he is not alone. It's no hallucination; there's a flesh-and-blood woman sitting in a chair pushed up close to the bed. Dana has been with him the entire time—putting cool compresses on his forehead during the worst of the sweats, holding the basin when he pukes, helping the CNA clean things up, getting him fresh ice chips. Even when he yells at her to get out or go fuck herself she stays by his side, offering wordless comfort, patient and gentle. She is his only strength in these hours of desperation and misery, and he clings to her even while he despises himself for striking out and trying to push her away.

"What . . . what are you reading?" he asks at one point, when he comes out of a feverish doze and finds Dana turning the pages of a battered paperback.

"_The_ _Mistress of Spices_," she says. "An old favorite." Her head rests near his, her cheek brushing his shoulder. He doesn't know how she can stand to do it; he reeks, and not just from shit and urine and sweat and vomit but the alcohol and narcotic coming out of his pores, sour and sickening as hell.

"Tell me . . . what it's about." He'll take any distraction at this point—anything to get him out of the pain, and the endless keening for opiates in every atom of his being.

For answer Dana turns back to the first page. _"'I am a Mistress of Spices,'"_ she begins, and pauses. "Would you like me to read to you?"

He manages a nod and closes his eyes as her soft, expressive voice takes him away from this hell he endures: a dingy, air-conditioned room, with cold, flickering fluorescent light over the bed and the clinical smell of disinfectant and rubbing alcohol, the sound of distant voices and monitor alarms, crepe-soled shoes on worn linoleum and machines clicking and beeping. Through the magic of story he enters a little shop in a poor neighborhood, where spices lie piled in tarnished bins, their fragrance lingering in the dim, dusty air.

"'_They do not know, of course. That I am not old, that this seeming-body I took on in Shampati's fire when I vowed to become a Mistress is not mine. I claim its creases and gnarls no more than water claims the ripples that wrinkle it. They do not see, under the hooded lids, the eyes which shine for a moment—I need no forbidden mirror (for mirrors are forbidden to Mistresses) to tell me this—like dark fire. The eyes which alone are my own.'"_

"No more than water," he mutters hoarsely, struck by the phrase and its meaning. Dana strokes his hair as she continues with the story of the immortal woman who is able to read the desires and fears of others through the use of spices, a gift granted to her at great cost. Despite the involuntary muscle spasms and the pain in his thigh and the nausea, he finds himself drawn into the narrative. Dana's breath warms his skin occasionally as she speaks. He knows she must be exhausted at this point, but her voice holds only a steady calm and a deep affection that eases his anxiety even as it baffles him.

A little later he feels the tremors begin in his stomach. "Basin," he says hoarsely, cutting across her words. In a moment the bowl is in place and she's holding him while he brings up bile and a few traces of blood. When the dry heaves stop she cleans his mouth and gives him some ice chips to suck on. Then she calls the doctor who's supervising.

"Steven? He's still having trouble with the nausea. Yes . . . there's blood. Just traces . . . bright red, no coffee grounds. I understand. Okay, see you shortly." She ends the call. "He'll be here in a few minutes, he's finishing up rounds."

"Didn't need to call him," he mutters. Dana brushes a kiss over his temple, her lips soft; she smells so good, like the floral soap she uses and her own scent, a little musky, a little sweaty.

"He'll see if he can increase the anti-nausea meds. He'll also make sure the blood is just esophageal irritation," she says quietly. "Helping you feel better is well worth calling him a bit early."

He wants to yell at her, to thank her, to ask why she's doing this, but his throat is too raw and he's so tired from battling the withdrawal that he can barely keep his eyes open. She moistens his lips and wipes the sweat from his face for the thousandth time, her touch gentle.

Later, when the exam's done, when the night shift has started and everything's quieted down, he says "Go home." His words are a little slurred because they've upped the anti-nausea meds and also the muscle relaxer. Both are working but they're also making him feel . . . not stoned, just kinda spacey. It's not a bad feeling though. He'll take it over lying knotted up and dreading the next bout of dry heaves.

Dana is lying on the gurney they brought in for her, as they've done for the last couple of nights. She's facing him, and he can see she is tired to the bone. "No," she says softly. "Not until you can go too."

"Smother mother," he growls. Her weary face brightens for a moment in genuine amusement.

"Oho, I'll make you pay for that," she says, and there's a little purr in her voice that catches his interest despite the hell he's going through.

"Like to see you try," he gets out. She chuckles.

"When we're home again I'll show you exactly what I can do, my beautiful man." She reaches out and takes his hand in hers, her small fingers cool and dry. Her touch feels like a blessing, unearned but welcome. "Try to sleep, love. You're worn out."

He rides a long, uneasy slide into the dark with the sure knowledge of her there beside him, her presence steady and strong.

_August 24th_

"The pain you're feeling is mainly physical. Undoubtedly there are some psychological and emotional elements as well, but Doc Gardener's more qualified than I am to address that area." Doctor Theodoropoulos sits back in his chair. He's about Greg's age, shorter and stockier but not fat, with salt and pepper hair and black eyes that gleam with amusement when he talks. He's actually something of a likeable guy, on the whole; he is honest and prompt with his replies to questions and doesn't take umbrage or get mad when he's pushed a little. In fact he seems to enjoy a good barney, which makes him ideal as an ongoing-treatment specialist. "I'm surprised and kinda pissed off that you haven't been given the chance to work with pain management before this. Your need is real. Anyway, it's counterproductive for you to endure the numbers you've told me. All that does is make everything much worse." His next words are surprising. "I don't blame you for seeking relief in any way you can. Now let's get you some real freedom from pain."

"You've already got a plan," Greg says, dreading what he'll hear.

"I think we'll start off with a TENS unit," Doctor T says. "A significant number of my patients have found results with electrical stimulation. It's not a cure-all, but it can help to reduce the continual noise you're getting from the damaged nerves in your quadriceps. And we'll start you on gabapentin and tizanidine. I'm also going to prescribe massage and hydrotherapy, both three times a week." He tilts his head. "We'll probably switch out meds or therapies for something else as we go along, which means you need to be completely honest with me about whether something's working or not. The main goal here is to get you out of as much chronic pain as possible without sacrificing your mental acuity or physical ability."

Greg leaves Doctor T's office daring to feel just a spark of hope for the first time in years. Dana is waiting for him, looking out the window at the sunny day beyond. When he approaches her she rises in her graceful way, her expression inquiring.

"Have to go to PT to get fitted for a TENS unit," he says, watching her reaction, dreading it. To his surprise her face brightens.

"Oh, those are wonderful! I have several patients who use TENS, it's a great tool."

They walk together to the physiotherapy center. She takes his hand in hers as if it is the most natural thing in the world. A song pops into his head. "Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do," he sings under his breath, and Dana chuckles. Her fingers tighten on his gently.

"You have no problem hanging out with a guy who wears electrodes on his leg," he says when they are in the elevator alone.

"You hang out with someone who uses wrist splints at night now and then," she points out. "TENS is just a tool to provide support and pain relief."

Her matter-of-fact acceptance reassures him as they reach their floor and the doors open. "Are you always this sickeningly cheerful or do you eat rainbows for breakfast, Shirley Temple?" he asks with considerable sarcasm, heading down the hallway. Her soft laugh fills the corridor and he closes his eyes for a moment, basking in the sound. He never thought he'd enjoy someone's happiness the way he does hers.

"Well, would it please you better if I was a mean old governess?" she says. Her eyes sparkle with amusement. "I have this really great outfit and a big ruler . . ."

"Yeah yeah," he says, but he can't help smiling. They've arrived at the right door. "Hold that thought."

"I'd rather hold you," she says, and leans in to give him a kiss before they go into the PT area.

By the time they get back to her place he is exhausted. It's been a big day, and a long one; he climbs out of the car stiff and a little light-headed. But he is in much less pain, and that's from meds alone at this point—hydroxyzine and gabapentin, just as Doctor T said. The TENS unit will reduce it even further.

In their bedroom Dana shows him how to put on the electrodes. She kneels beside him to position the pads, two above and three below the big scar. "We'll try it this way," she says. "If you need more relief we can put the extra pad above or in the small of your back." She hands him the unit. "Go ahead. It takes some time to find the right settings, don't worry if it doesn't happen right away."

It doesn't take long before he feels something—a weird sort of tingling—and then a gradual damping-down of the incessant shrill keening of severed nerve endings. It happened in PT too when the therapist demonstrated the unit, but it still takes him by surprise, this reduction in agony. Slowly the feeling turns into something resembling a deep muscle ache, like a charlie horse or bruise, making its presence known when he moves but as soreness, not sharp, stabbing pain. He gets up and walks across the room, then comes back. The limp will never leave him, but now it isn't like walking on razors to go from point A to point B. He almost feels like dancing when he returns to Dana.

"Holy _fuck_," he says. She reaches up to catch his hand and press a kiss to his palm, then puts her cheek there. He can feel wetness under his fingers but she doesn't say anything, just holds onto him.

They order in—Chinese, he's not quite ready for Indian food yet—and settle on the big couch to watch tv. Ten days ago he would never have believed he would be here, detoxed, nearly pain-free, and in the arms of a woman who stayed with him through an experience that would have sent most people fleeing in utter disgust and terror. He picks a baby shrimp out of his fried rice and holds it up for Dana, who takes it off the chopsticks and munches with a blissful expression. She still looks tired but there's something else there, a sort of peacefulness he can't explain. He doesn't want to anyway, not tonight. It's enough that he's here with her. Tomorrow will take care of itself for once.

They are curled up in bed together and almost asleep when she says, "I'm going to suggest you take a medical leave of absence." Her tone is neutral, quiet. It truly is a suggestion, not a way of coercing him into doing what she wants. He considers it. After everything that's happened he feels drained, worn out; his ability to reason and deduce is practically non-existent, by his standards anyway. He could use some time off.

"How long?" He brings her closer and can't help but smile when she makes a noise of satisfaction, a little purr that always turns him on. He's not up for sex yet—literally-but he still likes having her snuggled in around him.

"Two months, maybe three. Any longer and you'll die of complete boredom." Humor glimmers in her soft voice. "But you need a little time to rest and heal, and get used to the meds and therapy."

"Yes ma'am," he says in mock humility, and chuckles when she tweaks his nipple gently. "I think I can wrangle thirty days out of the She-Wolf Biz-natch of Princeton-Plainsboro."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to talk with the Dean of Medicine myself," Dana says. There is an odd tone in her voice that makes him turn his head to look at her. In the soft semi-darkness it's possible to see she's wearing an expression that does not bode well for Lisa Cuddy.

"Hey, all I ask is that I get to watch the two of you wrestle each other naked in a giant lime vodka jello shot," he says, and revels in her snort of amusement as her hand lightly smacks his chest before she caresses him.

"Go to sleep," she says, and kisses the spot she just swatted. He rests his cheek against her hair and closes his eyes, allowing the quiet darkness and Dana's warm presence to ease him into rest.

_August 25__th_

"I understand what you're asking, Doctor Gardener. It's just not possible. House has already had nearly a month on sick leave, as well as substantial time off for rehab just in the last year. Six more months would put the Diagnostics department in danger of being closed permanently."

Dana fought to keep a neutral expression. "If Doctor House doesn't get the time he needs to recuperate and regain his strength, then the department truly will be closed because he won't be there to run it."

Wilson's eyes widened a bit before he looked away, clearly uncomfortable. Cuddy glanced down at her notes, unfazed.

"Doctor Nolan indicates the detox procedure was successful, as well as excellent initial results with the pain management specialist. There's no reason why House can't come back to work."

"Pain management is still in the early stages," Dana pointed out. "There will inevitably be adjustment of medications and techniques. Doctor House should really be asking for twelve months instead of just six."

Cuddy snorted. "As if he'd get it." She looked up from the file, her gaze intent, challenging. "Nolan doesn't indicate any recuperative time period here. You're the only one advocating for it. Since you're also involved personally with House, I have to question the validity of that advocacy."

Wilson passed a hand over his face. "Oh, here we go," he muttered, and ignored Cuddy's quick sidelong glare. Dana sat up a little straighter.

"You're actually denying your tenured department head a brief sabbatical because he's spending personal time with his therapist?"

"So you don't refute the fact that you're having an affair?"

"An _affair_?" Dana struggled not to raise her voice.

"What else would you call it?" Cuddy rested her elbows on the desk and laced her fingers together. She offered Dana a slight smile, though her gaze held an inimical quality now. "I'm not granting a paid vacation so you can play with your boy toy."

Dana recognized the tactic even as her temper rose. To lose her cool now would be to cede all her high ground to Cuddy, and she wasn't about to do that, not when Greg needed the time off. "I'll be sure to tell him your opinion," she said quietly, though she longed to slap the other woman. "You understand of course that his only recourse is to resign."

"_What_?" Wilson stared at her in shock, but Cuddy was chuckling.

"Nice try. He can't and he knows it. He's got nowhere else to go. No one would ever hire a nightmare like House. I have a lawyer on retainer and a large chunk of money in an escrow account just for his cases. Tell me how many other hospitals or clinics would be willing to do that."

"You really expect me to believe Doctor House is the only gifted physician on the Eastern seaboard who doesn't play well with others?" Dana gave Cuddy her best skeptical expression. "You and I both know most if not all of the big guns would do whatever it took to hire and keep him."

"Until the first time he earned a malpractice suit or civil action because of his behavior. God forbid he should destroy an MRI machine or attempt to burn down the morgue." Cuddy's smile widened a fraction. "He likes to bring in hookers after hours, and he keeps a bottle of bourbon in his desk drawer. No one else would ever allow him that much freedom just to get the benefit of his gift."

Dana ignored the deliberate provocation; again, it was as much to disarm her as it was to poke her in the eye with a sharp stick. "Even if no one would hire him, and I doubt very much that's true, he would be much in demand as a consultant. He's had at least a dozen offers from every continent to sit in on cases, just over the last few weeks alone. And that's not counting the requests to lecture or teach." She kept her gaze locked on Cuddy's. "If you're unwilling to support his efforts in recovery, I will certainly counsel him to turn in his resignation and support him in whatever he chooses to do next." She raised one brow slightly. "Are you really willing to risk losing your star player and the department that's put this hospital on the map?"

Cuddy's smile faltered, disappeared. She lowered her hands. "My hospital does not depend on the Diagnostics department to keep it at the head of the list," she saiid evenly, but there was a slight snap to her words now. "Our Head of Oncology is one of the best-rated physicians in North America—"

"Why, thank you," Wilson said, heavy on the irony. Cuddy ignored him.

"—and we're on the cutting edge of teaching techniques, as well as advances in surgical methods and diag—" She stopped abruptly.

Dana set aside the little flicker of triumph she felt at Cuddy's gaffe. "I'm not a donor, you don't have to sell me on your good points. All I'm saying is that Doctor House needs to rest and recover his strength."

"I just went through the biggest scare of my life, not to mention surgery," Cuddy said. For a moment the mask slipped, and she looked every year of her age. "You don't see me taking six months off."

"Maybe you should." Dana got to her feet. "If that's your final decision, I'll let you know what Doctor House has to say by tomorrow morning."

Cuddy sat back. "You do that. I'll talk to Nolan and see what he says. I'll discuss this with House tomorrow."

"You'll discuss it with me," Dana said evenly. "Doctor House has authorized me to stand in for him, and if you need confirmation, he's indicated he'll be happy to leave a message on your voicemail."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say it sounds like you don't want me talking to him," Cuddy said. Dana didn't take the bait.

"It wasn't my idea, it was Doctor House's," she said.

"We only have your word for that," Wilson said. Dana gave him a considering look.

"It's a mystery to me that Greg is still willing to call either one of you a friend," she said quietly. "He has his faults, but disloyalty isn't one of them." She turned away. "_Vous êtes deux lâches_," she said under her breath. Cuddy's expression didn't change, but Wilson's eyes widened before his brows lowered and a tinge of color appeared in his cheeks. With that final _riposte_ Dana left the office, struggling to keep from slamming the door behind her.

[H]

It's early afternoon of the day after their bedtime discussion about the leave of absence. Greg is watching tv, crashed out on the couch, still tired from the past couple of weeks but feeling pretty damn good all things considered—much of his pain is gone and he is not jonesing hard for Vicodin, two huge pluses in his book. As he flips through the channels to get to _Prescription: Passion!_ he hears Dana come home, and knows immediately she is upset. She bangs the front door shut and dumps her coat on the chair, all the while muttering to herself. As she stalks by him he can hear what she's saying. He blinks. It's the first time he's heard her curse in any language. "What's wrong?" he calls.

She actually growls. "_Ces gens sont des idiots!_"_  
_

Greg keeps a straight face, though it's difficult. "Is that so."

"_Yes_!" Dana comes back into the room to prowl back and forth before him. She is flushed with anger, her grey eyes bright and hard as diamonds, and the very slight accent in her words is more pronounced. "I expected a bit of respect from Doctor Cuddy, that—that-" She takes a deep breath. "I thought we would talk as one professional to another, both of us concerned about you and trying to do what's best—and she acted like—like-_oooohhhhh!_" Dana picks up a cushion and hurls it across the room.

"Calm down," he says, vastly entertained by this uncharacteristic display of fury. "Stop being dramatic and tell me what happened."

With a visible effort Dana takes a deep breath and steadies herself. "She insisted on speaking with Doctor Nolan because she didn't believe she could take me seriously as a therapist, since I'm sleeping with you." Her eyes flash. "That _hypocrite_, that-that _salope_, sitting there as condescending as you please! I just bet she had an intern under the desk! And Wilson perched next to her like a maiden aunt, pretending to be shocked by the two of us fighting over you. He probably texted every word to his assistant to get it into the hospital grapevine that much faster!"

Greg can't help it, he has to chuckle.

"I'm serious!" Dana glares at him. "It's going to take Darryl convincing your boss with HIS opinion that you need a medical leave for her to agree to it!"

"So what, you're mad she dissed you?" He shrugs. "We talked about this earlier. She likes to power-play people, that's all. She's administration, it's a genetic predisposition."

"No, that's _not_ the main reason why I'm angry!" Dana snaps. "She closed off any avenue for me to help you except the ones she chose, and then she used them to try to make me feel inferior. _Cochon!_ How dare she place her welfare above that of someone in need!"

"_Administration,_" he points out once more. "Everything is grist for her mill, it's just how the process works. Enlightened self-interest, blah blah. You know that."

She folds her arms and glares out the window; she is actually upset on his behalf, aside from the insult to her own status. With anyone else he would suspect play-acting, but Dana isn't like that. "Come here," he says. She gives an impatient little bounce but obeys, perching next to him. The color in her cheeks is becoming, as is the glitter of anger in her eyes. "You're wasting a lot of time and energy that could be spent on something else," he says, and bends down a little to kiss her. The snap and spark of her emotion blends into the exchange, heating it up but also easing her distress. When the kiss ends she brushes her lips over his, then rests her cheek on his shoulder.

"You come first," she says. Greg feels a sort of odd shock at her words—not unpleasant, just unexpected, because he knows she means them. Not knowing what to say, he brings her close and enjoys the warmth of her there, in the moment with him.

Later that evening he calls Cuddy at her home. When she picks up he says "Three months, non-negotiable."

Cuddy doesn't answer right away. "Or?"

"Or I'm gone." He hadn't planned on saying it, but it feels absolutely right.

"Gone where? You have nowhere else to go, House. You need this job."

"No," he says, and feels a huge weight lift off his heart and mind suddenly. "No, I don't."

"Your girlfriend told you that." She sighs softly. "Just because you want it to be true—"

"I'm not negotiating, so you can lay off the hardass routine," he says. "Either you agree to my time off or you don't. If you don't, I'm done. It's that simple."

The two of them are silent for a while. Then Cuddy says "Three months, not a day longer." And she's gone. House ends the call and goes into the bedroom, where Dana lies sleeping. He watches her and thinks about what the future might hold. While he knows that at some point he'll fuck up this fantastic thing he's got going, for now he's in a good place, and he thinks maybe Dana is too. And it's enough for now.

_The passage Dana reads is from the book The Mistress of Spices, by Chitra Divakaruni. Excellent read, highly recommended._

Please forgive my basic French, I did my best to translate correctly but it's been a long time since high school and online translators are notoriously inept :)

_Vous êtes deux lâches-you are both cowards_

___Ces gens sont des idiots-those people are idiots_

___salope-bitch_

___cochon-pig_

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	9. Session 6

**_(Many thanks to all who have added this story to your Favorites and Alerts lists. I'm deeply honored and humbly grateful. -R)_**

_September 17th_

"Open your eyes."

With reluctance, Greg does as M'lady commands. For the first part of this session he is on the platform, bound naked to the Saint Andrews cross with the usual leather restraints; however, this time he faces out, a circumstance that wouldn't bother him normally. But with his arms and legs spread apart and held immobile (though very comfortably, he must admit; a good med regimen and the TENS unit have worked something he won't bring himself to call a miracle), the display of his once-athletic body now encumbered with mid-life love handles and a slight sag in his pectorals, and worst of all, the hideous gully of the scar festooned with electrodes, all combine to make him feel like a poorly repaired antique in a thrift-store window. At least the lighting is low, limited to a few oil lamps placed here and there, protected by clear hurricane shades.

He tugs at his bonds and watches M'lady as she comes toward him. She wears a scarlet figured-silk juban with long flowing sleeves, the folded panels down the front open to reveal glimpses of her breasts and belly and thighs beneath the gleaming material, her hair tumbled about her shoulders in a fall of old-gold splendor. He feels a rush of desire, and immediately regrets it. His penis and balls are bound together with silk cords. The bindings are not constrictive of course, they're very carefully placed and light as a cobweb, but an erection is impossible. That doesn't stop Little Greg from trying.

M'lady is smiling. "Men," she says. "So hard-wired for visual stimulation." She stops just a foot away, and puts a hand to his cheek. The juban's wide sleeve rustles softly as she lifts her arm; he catches a whiff of her perfume, the subtle amber musk she wears sometimes. "I know you don't agree, but you look very handsome. Sometimes I think it would be lovely to have a setting like this in the living room, just so you'd be on display for my enjoyment." Her hand glides down, brushes the old scar on his neck, trails over his collarbone to the divide of his chest. He can't stop a little moan of both longing and protest. Her touch warms his skin. Then she puts her hand on his chest, above his heart. "Are you ready to go on? Do you need meds? Some water?"

He shakes his head, comforted a bit by her genuine concern—until she goes to the standing tray and looks over the items lined up for her inspection. He watches in growing anxiety as she selects a flogger with thick, supple thongs. When she comes to him he steels himself for what's ahead. Intellectually he knows she won't hurt him, but the small boy within, the one who still huddles locked in the dark, is afraid of pain, of the white-hot strike of the leather on vulnerable, shrinking flesh.

"Gregory," her soft voice caresses him. "Look at me."

Slowly he does as she tells him. M'lady holds up the flogger. "Tell me where you want to be touched," she says. Greg stares at her, his wrists twisting in the leather restraints. He hadn't expected this. Part of him is intrigued, the other part wary of a ruse.

"Don't . . . don't hit me," he says, fighting to get the words out through a constricted throat.

"I won't hit you. I'll touch you. There's a difference. What's your answer?" She smiles at him, cool and mysterious in the soft light. "Use my title."

He eyes the flogger. "Sh-shoulder, M'lady," he says. He can handle pain there better than anywhere else for some reason, as he knows from extensive experience.

Dana nods. When she lifts the flogger he can't help but flinch. The thongs drift over his skin, a caress, not a strike. They move from left shoulder to right, a slow path made of small, lazy circles that take in the base of his throat and the notch of his collarbones. He tips his head back and swallows a groan as his trapped penis swells in its silk-web prison. Slender fingers touch his chin, bring his head down.

"Face me," M'lady says. He looks at her, but can't hold it; his gaze slides away. Her palm cups his cheek. "Gregory." When he does finally lift his eyes to her he finds she is watching him unsmiling, but there's a warmth in her regard that eases his fear. "Tell me where you want to be touched."

"Chest," he says at last, and watches as M'lady uses the flogger to gently swat first his left breast, and then his right. His nipples harden under the stimulation, his belly tightens with need.

"Where next?" she whispers.

By the time she reaches his abdomen he's sweating, his back arched as he tries in vain to ease the throbbing ache in his bound genitals. When her fingertips rest, light as thistledown, on the root of his penis, he can't stop a pleading groan.

"Do you trust me not to hurt you?"

"Yes," he manages to say, and in this moment it's the truth, something even the frightened little boy deep inside agrees to. "Yes, M'lady."

She removes the cords with maddening slowness and takes him in hand, brings him to the edge, pauses, lets go. He watches her, panicked that she's walking away, to see her take something from under the tray. It's a step-stool, not much more than a wooden box with a wide, thick top. She places it in front of him, moves it closer, then stands on it. Her gaze is almost level with his now. With care she lifts her right leg, a graceful movement, and hooks the back of her knee on his left hip. As she slides forward, she guides him inside her and rises up to take him in. He gasps at the incredible feel of her, warm and wet and tight. Her hands rest on his shoulders as they begin to move together. Because he's spread-eagled she has to do the work for both of them, but he knows quite well she's more than capable. She takes him from need to orgasm with slow, steady strokes, her soft voice crying out, her body trembling right before he releases, his pinioned hands clenched and then opening, his face pressed against her temple as bright waves of pure pleasure sweep through him.

They shower together afterward, and take a lengthy rest in their bedroom. While he loves every moment of sex with her, he has to admit that the time they spend together cuddling is just as delicious. He loves having her close, his hand on her hip or cupping her breast, her silky hair spilled across the pillow, across his skin; the way she rests her cheek on his chest, rubs her foot gently up and down his calf, trails her fingers over his arm.

They spend Friday evening at home, crashed out on the couch channel-surfing with beer and pizza. It's pure heaven having Dana snuggled in next to him, stealing pepperoni off his slices and offering kisses flavored with hops and garlic and herself, bold and spicy. They end up watching part of a Doctor Who marathon on BBC America and finally, sometime around midnight, head off to bed, almost too sleepy to make the short walk. When he falls asleep it is to the feel of Dana's warm breath against his skin.

_September 18th_

It's a nice Saturday morning in early fall—warm, sunny and bright, with the first hint of changing seasons showing here and there. At least that's what Greg presumes surrounds him, because he can't see any of it. He has soft paper tape holding both eyes closed, and a pair of wicked cool sunglasses on to hide the fact. He's blind as a bat, and that's the whole point. The second part of his session has begun.

"We'll use one of the local shopping centers, since that's more familiar territory for you," Dana had said at breakfast. "I need to pick up a few things anyway, and you can wait for me outside the stores. It'll be a good exercise in focusing on one thing to help you stay calm in public."

The journey was a pleasant one; Dana's a good driver, competent and calm, so he can relax and even doze a little, though he's still got knot of anxiety deep inside that even her assurances won't untie. Eventually they arrive at the Princeton Shopping Center, a place he has visited on occasion and knows fairly well. He gets out of the car and feels the soft breeze on his face, the warmth of the sun. Then Dana takes his free arm and moves in at his side. Normally he wouldn't like having someone guiding him like this, but she doesn't crowd him or use her sight advantage to dominate. She's just there, a quiet presence with a gentle, reassuring touch.

"Do you have on the ring I gave you?" she asks, a hint of provocation in her tone.

He is indeed wearing it, the weight a reminder of her on that most intimate part of himself. "Yes." His voice sounds loud in his ears. The wind ruffles his hair, brings a fugitive, tantalizing trace of Dana's scent, clean and fresh.

"And the bracelet?"

"Yes, mistress," he says in his creepy-servant voice, just to make her laugh.

"Good." She leads him forward, guiding him without hesitation. He relaxes as her confidence becomes apparent.

"You've done this before."

"It's a good tool, I've used it often for others and done it several times myself. Curb," she guides him up over the rise, her touch light. "Now I'm going to give you a two-way radio. If you want me or you need to talk, you can call and I'll be there immediately."

"Oh, that's a mistake on so many levels," he says, already thinking of all the havoc he can wreak.

"I know you're seven years old when it comes to technology," Dana says, and he can tell she's smiling. "Stay focused on why we're here, okay? Just keep the torment to a dull roar, that all I ask."

"Buzzkill," he says as they enter the main concourse of the shopping center. It's a bit warmer here because it's enclosed. He can hear generic store music playing, the echoes of talk and laughter in the open space, the rustle of bags and the muffled clack of booted feet on tiled floors. A rill of anxiety goes through him, but even as he hesitates, Dana comes to a stop.

"Take a breath," she says softly. "All of these people are here to shop just as we are. They're not thinking of you or me."

Her words hold reassurance without condescension. He relaxes slowly, letting himself sense the impersonal air of the talk and actions he can sense around him. After a few moments he stops and sniffs the air, making an obvious point of it; there's a delicious scent of cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee coming from somewhere nearby.

"I suppose that's a hint for second breakfast," Dana says, her resigned amusement evident. "All right, let's indulge ourselves."

They end up at a table with two lattes and fresh rolls. "There's a plate directly in front of you. Cup's at two o'clock, spoon and knife's at three, and napkins at nine," Dana says in her quiet, matter-of-fact way. She is correct, and his trust in her deepens another fraction. In her place he probably would have teased her, even though this is a therapy session and more or less serious business.

The coffee and rolls are delicious. He and Dana munch and exchange a few words, mostly her observations of the people around her, tickling his interest without getting intense about it. Greg feels that tight little knot deep inside begin to loosen. He's in the dark but he's not alone, and he's not forgotten or abandoned. In fact, this whole thing is beginning to take on the feel of an adventure.

"Okay," Dana says when they've finished. "Are you ready for the next step?"

They stroll together, her small hand holding his. Maybe he's actually enjoying this; his leg is aching a little but he's not in any real pain for the first time in years, and he has a beautiful woman at his side. And no one seems to be paying much attention to them. He's been listening as shoppers pass by, but there are no whispers or comments in their wake, just the inane chatter that passes for conversation with most people. After a few minutes Dana says "We've arrived at one of the stores on my list. I won't be long. I'd like you to sit outside and wait for me. Are you willing to do that?"

The anxiety creeps back, but it's not as strong as before. "'kay," he says, cautious.

"If you need me, use the radio," she says calmly. "But before you call me, if you can, try to concentrate on one thing to help you relax." Her hand rests on his shoulder. "See you in a few minutes," she says, and then he's alone. She hasn't been gone more than thirty seconds when he keys the mike.

"One Adam-twelve, one Adam-twelve, see the first rack of crullers at Yum Yum."

"Ha, very funny," Dana says, but he can hear the smile in her voice.

"What are you doing?" he wants to know—a pointless question, but he feels like being a pain.

"I believe in some cultures it's called _shopping_."

"Smartass woman. Could you be more specific?"

"No. Stop trying to distract yourself." She's gentle but she means it. "Concentrate. I'm here if you really need me."

"How long will you be?" he whines. "I'm not sitting out here forever."

"Not long. Now let's see how things go." And she's gone. Greg feels a little stab of unease, but is reassured by the fact that she answered him without hesitation, and she didn't get angry or upset. She will honor her word. So he settles on the seat and does his best to relax.

It's tough at first. He can't see people coming at him. While the crowd seems to be sparse, he can hear shoppers going by on either side of the bench. Then it happens: someone brushes his leg. He grips his cane in one hand and the two-way in the other, hating the fact that he's shaking. He keys the mike. "Gardener," he says, his voice tight with nerves.

"I'm right here," Dana says immediately.

"Someone . . ." He can barely get the words out. "Someone touched my leg."

"Was it deliberate?"

"No," he says, calming down at her matter-of-fact, quiet tone. "No, they were just passing by."

"Okay. Well done," she says to his surprise. "Now I know your senses are on high alert at this point, so let's use them rather than try to stuff them back into the box. What else do you feel? I mean physically, what's touching you?"

"Not you. Think we could do something about that?" he says in a suggestive tone.

"Later." There's a purr in her voice that sends a little shiver through him, because he knows she means it. "So, tell me what you feel."

With reluctance Greg pushes aside the thought of sexual delights coming his way after this excursion and considers the question. "My clothes . . . the ground under my shoes—the—the bench."

"What kind of bench is it?"

"The kind you sit on," he says. "_Duh_."

"Yes, I had deduced that much," Dana says wryly. "But you haven't seen it. Describe it to me."

He puts a hand on the seat. "Stone—no, poured cement or concrete." He traces the contours. "Kidney-shaped. That has to appeal to pissed-off shoppers."

Dana's chuckle is sweet and musical, even over the small two-way speaker. "What else?"

"Feels like fine sandpaper." He trails his fingertips over the surface. "Cool but not cold."

"Good. Keep going." He hears a rustling noise like a paper sack in the background as Dana speaks.

"What did you buy?" he asks, intrigued.

"You'll find out in a minute. I'm on my way."

A few moments later she sits next to him. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a moron," he says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his words at his weakness in calling her.

"Greg . . . this isn't about perfection or failing or anything of the kind," Dana says softly. "It's about finding out what's behind the fear, facing and accepting it, as you did when you took me with you into the memory of the closet." She puts a hand on his good thigh. "How do you really feel?"

"Not as anxious," Greg says, a little surprised to find it's true. He leans in and sniffs Dana's hair. "You smell like herb. They're selling pot in Princeton storefronts now?"

"This store carries organic herbs and ingredients," she says. "I thought we'd make rosemary chicken for supper at your place tonight."

Immediately he imagines his silent kitchen coming alive with the bustle of cooking, music playing in the background, the two of them sitting together enjoying the meal, teasing back and forth, relaxing in each other's company. The anxiety fades even further in the wake of this new vision, a surprising development.

"What are you thinking of?" Dana's soft voice enters his fantasy.

"Having dinner with you," he says. There is a rustle, and the presence of rosemary intensifies briefly as she lifts the bag to his nose. He breathes in the pungent marine-pine scent and the image in his mind grows sharper, more clear. He smiles a little, pleased.

"It seems smell is a strong sense for you," Dana says. "Let's work with that."

They visit a few more stores, and all of them have an olfactory story to tell; a coffee seller, the air thick with the dark richness of roasted beans and steamed milk; a smoothie stand awash in the bright clean reek of citrus and fresh mangoes, bananas, pineapple; a bakery taking brownies out of the oven, the fragrance of cocoa and vanilla, butter and sugar melding together in mellow sweetness. The last stop is a newsstand that sells a few foreign-language items. He knows Dana comes here often, he's found copies of French magazines and novels in her backpack and at her place; he enjoys having her read aloud to him, trading opinions and gossip in idiomatic French. This place too has a characteristic smell, a pleasant fug of fresh ink and salted roast cashews and pipe tobacco.

It's while he's waiting for Dana to complete her purchase in this last stop that he realizes he hasn't really noticed anyone around them. The number of shoppers seems to have increased, but his focus has been elsewhere. Maybe this will work after all . . .

And then he senses someone's approach. This isn't just a passerby or someone brushing near; whoever it is is heading directly for him. He tenses, his anxiety returning a thousandfold. Memories of being shot point-blank in his own office crowd into his head. He raises the two-way. "_Help!_" he snaps as he fumbles for his cane, just as a familiar voice says

"House?" in a doubtful tone.

"Oh _shit_," Greg groans as Dana comes flying to his side.

"I'm here," she says, breathless. "I'm here."

"House, what-what the _hell_ is going on?" Wilson comes closer. Now he sounds alarmed. "What's wrong? Why are you wearing sunglasses? Did something happen to your eyes? Are you okay?"

Greg puts down the two-way, takes off the glasses and peels the tape from his eyelids. He's shaking, and he hates it. When Dana puts a hand on his shoulder he flinches, waiting for her to slap at him, yell, lecture. Instead she sits down at his side and says nothing, just offers her presence. His anxiety subsides a little, even as anger starts to grow.

"Why is Doctor Gardener here?" Wilson is asking. He sounds sharper now, accusatory. "What the hell are you two doing?"

"Having an orgy in the shopping center, of course," Dana says with some asperity. Wilson shifts his glance over to Greg, annoyance flickering in his dark eyes.

"You know, I think I understand why you like her," he says. "She's as big a smartass as you are."

"It's a therapy session, okay?" Greg snaps. "Things were going fine until you showed up."

Wilson's brows rise in alarm. He lifts his hands in a 'don't shoot the piano player' gesture. "Hey, I didn't know! I—I thought you were in trouble or something." He pauses. "Therapy session? Here? In public?"

Greg glances at Dana, who is watching him, and nods slightly—_go ahead and tell him_. "Gregory suffers from hapnophobia, primarily, with incipient agoraphobia complicating matters," she says. "We're working on lessening the fear through gradual exposure to groups of people, using a variety of techniques."

"Hapnophobia . . . fear of—fear of being touched?" Wilson sits down, his entire focus on Greg now, concern emanating from him in waves. "_That's_ why you've been avoiding the lobby and the elevator at work." He shakes his head. "Why didn't you _say_ something?"

"It's often quite difficult for the patient to admit they're afraid of touch," Dana says quietly. "The concern and attempts at reassurance by friends or colleagues can make matters worse, because most people use touch to offer comfort or reassurance."

"And that amplifies the fear," Wilson says. He glances at Greg, then down at the floor. "So I just ruined the session."

"Right on the first guess," Greg growls at him before Dana can speak. Wilson raises his hands again in that placating gesture so characteristic of him.

"Okay, okay. I'm—I'm sorry." He hesitates. "Is there anything I can do-?"

"Yeah. Get lost," Greg snaps. Wilson rolls his eyes.

"How did I know that was coming?" He gets to his feet. "My apologies. Nice to see you, Doctor Gardener," he says, and takes himself off.

It's later that evening, when they're in the kitchen getting dinner ready, that Dana says "He really does care about you, you know." She's taking the chicken out of the oven while Greg is dishing up the potatoes.

"Wilson's an insufferable button-pushing control freak who makes cats look incurious by comparison," Greg says in reply, and takes clean plates out of the cupboard.

"That he may be, but he considers you his friend. I don't think he has all that many," Dana says. She sets the roasting pan on a pair of potholders lined up on the counter, picks up her glass and takes a sip of wine. "He was genuinely concerned for you. It was an honest mistake."

Of course Greg figured that out two seconds into Wilson's little visit but he just grunts, unwilling to discuss it further. Dana lets the subject drop, but he knows she'll come back to it eventually, if not tonight then sometime when he won't be able to avoid talking about it. But he'll deal with that when he comes to it.

The evening is every bit as pleasant as he'd imagined. Later rather than sooner they clean up, working side by side—an action he'd never imagined himself choosing voluntarily under any circumstance, but it's actually enjoyable with Dana there to make him laugh as they clear the table, put away the food, rinse the plates and utensils and stack them in the dishwasher. Then they go to the living room, where he watches some tv and she works on file notes, curled up at his side with his arm around her, his fingers playing idly with her hair.

When they finally go to bed they make love, a slow and wordless journey that leaves them both clinging to each other, awash with afterglow and the delight of a thorough exploration of each other's bodies. Now he can touch her whenever he likes and he takes full advantage of that fact, but pleasant memories of being held fast, of allowing someone else to take control just for a little while, drift through his mind as he lies beside Dana, her warm body cuddled next to his. The last thing he hears before dropping off to sleep is her soft, even breathing.

_September 19th_

Dana woke as the first fingers of sunlight were beginning to enter the room through gaps in the blinds. Greg was deeply asleep for once, his lean body relaxed. She watched him for a long time, enjoying the peace she saw there. It was a rare moment for a restless soul, and she was pleased to know he was capable of it.

After a while she eased out of bed and went to her overnight bag. When she returned he stirred. "'swrong?" he mumbled.

"Nothing," she said, and kissed his cheek. "Go back to sleep, it's too early to be up yet." He growled and pulled a pillow over his head. Dana bit back a laugh and placed the items she'd retrieved in the nightstand drawer, got up and headed for the bathroom.

She had the apartment to herself for an hour or two. In that time she unloaded the dishwasher and put things away, sorted clothes waiting to be washed and got a batch ready, wrote out a quick shopping list and returned with two full bags, the Sunday Times and a bouquet of chrysanthemums. She'd bought them on impulse, not really thinking about her reasons. Now she understood why. In Greg's kitchen they looked impossibly lovely, their soft, earthy autumn colors lending some interest to the bland white tiles and walls. She arranged them in a cheap pressed-glass vase she'd purchased, knowing Greg didn't have anything to put them in, and set them on the counter.

Once the chores were done she went to the fireplace and built a fire with some of her applewood branches and logs, the ones she'd brought over on her last visit, taking her time, enjoying the sight of the first flames and the tentative warmth they offered. When the blaze was well-caught she left the doors open a bit, turned on a table lamp and curled up on the couch with her files, a cup of coffee at her side, curtains drawn against the overcast skies. It promised to be damp and chilly today; Greg would probably be hurting more with the change in weather. She'd planned a breakfast to bake in the oven, a frittata that would warm the kitchen and fill it with savory fragrance, a pleasant comfort on such a dreary day. The thought filled her with happiness, so much so that she paused, a bit surprised by the intensity of the emotion, and reflected on the cause.

She had spent several years caring for her father in a manner similar to this, until it had become impossible for her to do everything he required. There was a peace in routine, in everyday chores, creating order out of chaos . . . _Ah,_ Dana thought with a wry smile, _there it is._ She knew herself well enough to understand her need to find something to control when her emotions felt as though they were very much out of her mastery.

_I love Greg. _The thought wasn't a new one; she'd known it for some time now. He could be cruel, harsh and manipulative, but he was also capable of incredible tenderness and understanding, and a depth of feeling few people could imagine, much less attain. And bravery; she'd never met anyone with so much courage. He was strong and he was fragile, and she loved him all the more for the dichotomy. But she wasn't sure how he felt about her. He'd experienced so many betrayals and rejections from people who supposedly cared for him, it would be difficult if not impossible for him to trust enough to open his heart to someone once more. He would probably always be suspicious of her motives—was it love or her work as a counselor motivating her actions? Reassurances meant nothing to him, he valued deeds above words most of the time. She could only offer her trust and be worthy of his in return, and hope it was enough.

Soft rustling sounds from the bedroom told Dana the object of her thoughts was awake and headed off for his morning ablutions. She set aside her work and went into the kitchen to start the coffeemaker.

She was putting out a mug and the sugar bowl when Greg came in, yawning. His hair was tousled, there were bags under his eyes and his bathrobe hung open, revealing the wrinkled tee shirt and flannel bottoms he'd slept in. He limped slowly across the room, his hand on his ruined thigh, and took possession of the mug. Dana knew better than to touch him or say anything; he usually needed some time to get reconciled to the discomfort of waking up. She busied herself with emptying the cold dregs of her first cup down the drain. Greg poured a generous amount of joe into his mug, dumped in three heaping teaspoons of sugar, gave it a token stir and headed out to the bedroom, still silent.

The casserole was in the oven keeping warm and Dana was slicing brioche when he came in again. This time he was dressed, though he hadn't bothered with his hair or tucked his shirt into his jeans. "Good morning," she said softly, and received a grunt in response.

He ate a good breakfast though, two helpings and several slices of toast. He didn't join in the cleaning up, just retreated to the living room. When she came in a short time later he'd claimed the couch by stretching out full length on it, with her work relegated to the coffee table. Dana noted his provocative expression and said nothing, just moved to the easy chair by the fire and picked up a file. Greg turned on the tv. Silence fell, disturbed only by the sound of the fire crackling and the click of the remote as Greg advanced steadily through channels. Finally he switched off the television. Dana glanced up to find him staring at her.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, using a note of quiet inquiry.

"I'm not your father," he said roughly. "You don't have to coddle me."

Dana put the file aside. "Did I do too much?" she asked. Greg looked away.

"I'm not so feeble I need to have every room warmed up for me and all my needs seen to before I even ask for them," he said harshly. "Stop it. I'll let you know what I want you to do."

She nodded, though she felt a little unreasonable sting of hurt and rejection. "Okay. I apologize." She picked up the file and opened it.

"That's it?" Greg sounded incredulous. "You're just going to let it go at that?"

"I had the feeling I was doing too much, but sometimes . . . it's an old habit," she said. Greg continued to observe her with that piercing gaze.

"Feeling insecure?" he said, and there was mockery in his voice now.

"Yes," Dana said simply. She looked down at the file. "I like being with you, but I'm not sure how you feel about me. I'm not fishing," she hastened to add, "just saying. So I . . . I overcompensated, which isn't fair to you. I'm sorry."

Silence greeted this statement. The hurt grew a little. _Guess that answers my question, _she thought, and focused on the notes in front of her.

"Hey." She looked up to find that diamond-hard stare had softened slightly. "You're too far away."

Dana fought to keep the smile from her lips. "You're taking up the whole couch."

"A smart woman like you can't figure out how to fit on here with me? I'm so disappointed."

"Tight quarters," she pointed out.

"All the better." He leered at her, brows raised. Dana closed the file. She gave him an appraising look.

"You know, I could bring out those lovely silk ties sitting in the drawer of the nightstand," she said slowly, and enjoyed the way his brilliant gaze darkened just a little with a mixture of lust and apprehension. _Such a sensualist,_ she thought, and set aside her files to rise to her feet.

When she came back to the living room Greg hadn't moved, but he watched as she approached. She knelt by the couch and put the ties in his hand, then offered her wrists. Greg's eyes widened, then narrowed.

"An apology," he said.

"Yes," Dana said, "but also an opportunity." She smiled at him.

He said nothing for a few moments. Then, "Strip." His voice was low, a little rough, with an edge of uncertainty that went straight to her heart. She said nothing however, just did as he commanded, glad the room was warmed by the fire as well as the heating system. When she was naked he sat up and gestured at the couch. "Sit."

He tied her wrists together, his lean fingers testing the bonds to make sure they were secure but not tight. Her ankles were next. Then he lay on his side and patted the empty place in front of him. "Lie down." His words held a sharpness she'd heard before in other voices, other encounters; he was excited by her submission. Dana did as he told her, stretching her arms above her head when he lifted them. He looked down at her, that vivid gaze uncertain now, doubtful. Dana smiled at him.

"I do trust you," she said.

"Bad idea." He sounded dismissive, but his hand drifted down to cup her breast. She pushed gently into his touch, enjoying the way he rubbed his callused thumb over her nipple. "Lie still." When her lips parted to speak he put his finger against them. "No talking."

She captured his fingertip and stroked it with her tongue, sucked on it gently. His pupils dilated, eyes darkening with need. He took his hand away, leaned down and kissed her, soft and then hard and demanding. When he lifted away she moaned in protest but didn't speak and didn't move. He smiled. "Good girl," he said, and snorted softly when she stuck her tongue out at him. Slowly his hand moved down her body, caressing her, exploring. When he trailed his fingers over her belly she gave a pleading moan and dared a little wriggle.

"Ah ah, naughty girl." Greg sounded stern, but his gaze held a fugitive humor. "Roll over."

Dana's mouth went dry. She blinked and swallowed, but didn't hesitate. She struggled onto her front and put her head down, body tensed, her heart beginning to speed up. When Greg's hand came to rest on her left cheek she flinched, anticipating the first slap.

"So much for trust." Greg sounded disgusted. "Sit up."

Dana obeyed, her face flushed, to find Greg glaring at her. "You think I'm going to hurt you," he snapped. "You really believe I'd do that?" When she didn't answer he rolled his eyes. "Speak already."

"Thank you," she said. "It isn't that I don't trust you, it's—it's an old memory . . . someone who did hurt me long ago." She hesitated. "I'll tell you about it if you want to hear the story."

After a moment Greg nodded, not looking at her. Dana drew in a breath. "Okay," she said softly, and clasped her hands together. The deep crimson of the silk tie around her wrists contrasted with the paleness of her skin. She concentrated on it, willing the words to come. She hadn't planned on talking about this, and found it hard to dredge up the old memory. "Okay, well . . .when I started university, it was a big change for me. Everything before had been regimented, organized, scheduled. I went to school, practiced piano, took care of my father. I hadn't even been kissed, never gone on a date . . . and then I found myself dealing with people trying to get me into their bed. It was utterly wonderful and completely terrifying at the same time." She sighed. "One evening my boyfriend took me to a party where everyone was into bondage. It didn't sound appealing but he talked me into it. There were the usual dabblers, the ones who enjoy wearing the gear and talking the talk but have never so much as picked up a flogger with serious intent. But there was a couple . . . they were hardcore, a master and servant." She stopped, felt her gut tighten.

"Let me guess," Greg said. She winced at the sarcasm in his voice. "They hauled you off to the bedroom and did terrible things."

"No . . . no, it wasn't a rape or anything like that," she said. "But the master gave me a safe word and . . . and when I used it he wouldn't stop. He was spanking me and I was tied—tied up—and he . . . he hurt me . . ." She was trembling, she noted absently.

"So you thought you'd use me to exorcise your demons."

"_No_." Dana turned her gaze to Greg's, appalled. "No, I would never do that. I would ask you for help, but it would be your choice."

"Then what just happened?" Greg demanded. "You didn't count on me spanking you?"

"I hadn't planned that far ahead," she said, determined to be honest.

"You're an idiot," he said harshly.

"Sometimes, yes. This was spur of the moment. I . . . I wanted to show you that I do trust you. Implicitly. But the memory . . . it's very strong." She shivered, remembering the pain of the hard blows.

Greg stared at her. Dana held his gaze, her face still warm. "Safe word," he said finally. "What was it?"

"Jasmine," she said.

"Clear sign of jerkdom, giving you a word like that." He studied her for a moment. "Stand up." She obeyed, watching as he came to a sitting position. With a sardonic smile he patted his legs. "Lie down on your belly."

Dana hesitated, not wanting to cause him pain by putting her weight on his bad thigh. Greg sighed and propped a cushion over his right leg.

"You let me worry about my leg, control freak. Now lie down. No talking except for the safe word." She complied, careful not to press on his scar. When she was stretched out once more he ran his hand along her back to rest on her sartorius, the slight smooth plane just above her ass. When he traced the outside of her cheek she shivered, but it wasn't with fear this time. There was no threat in his touch; it was slow, gentle, considering. With care he cupped her in his palm. "So soft," he said, almost under his breath. His thumb moved back and forth, caressing the underside. Dana closed her eyes and felt something tighten low in her belly. She moaned as his fingers teased the divide, easing her thighs apart just enough to slide between her labia. He stroked the thin folds, callused fingertips moving over sensitive flesh.

When he finally found her clitoris Dana was struggling not to push into his touch. He gently pinched her and chuckled at her sharp moan of frustration. "Impatient," he chided. "Just relax." Deliberately teasing her, he circled the pulsing nub, easing back the prepuce to expose the little knot of nerves hidden beneath. She shuddered and bit her lip, hands gripping the arm of the couch as he rubbed her lightly. And then his free hand came to rest on her right cheek. He gave her a little pat. It was barely more than a caress, but the sensation went straight to her core.

"Everything all right?" There was mockery there, but genuine concern too. She uttered a pleading groan, longing to lift her hips and force him to bring her to climax. He gave her another smack, this one a bit stronger, and increased the intensity of his stimulation. Dana shuddered as he gently kneaded her cheek between each swat, moving from one side to the next. There was no pain, only the building of a delicious tension that finally erupted in an intense wave of sweetness, flooding her senses.

For some time he played with her, giving her exquisite little aftershocks of orgasm between random slaps that were more sound than anything else. Dana relaxed slowly, aware her cheeks were tingling and a bit swollen but no bruises, no welts; she was in good hands, literally.

"Sit up," Greg said at last. Dana obeyed, aware that he had an enormous bulge straining against the rough material of his jeans. She dared to rest her hands lightly on his fly. Greg said nothing, just watched her with those vivid blue eyes, waiting to see what she would do. She slid down to the floor, kneeling in front of him, put her hands on his knees and moved first one leg, then the other so that she could settle between them. When she reached out with her bound hands to unzip his jeans he didn't stop her, groaning softly when his erection sprang up, dusky from being trapped too long in a confined space. Dana leaned forward, her arms pinned beneath her as she took him into her mouth. Now it was his turn to shudder and moan as she worked him with slow, relentless strokes, his hips lifting as he released finally in short, sharp bursts. She waited until he relaxed before she eased him out of her mouth, pressed a kiss to his thigh and rested her cheek against his belly, as thoroughly used up as he was.

And then she was being raised to sit beside him. He loosened the silk ties on her wrists, massaging the pink marks with a gentle touch. When she was free she took his hands in hers and kissed them, brought them to her cheek. He said nothing, but when she opened her eyes he was watching her, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

"It was good, huh?" he said, and now the uncertainty he'd probably been feeling all along was allowed to show. Dana nodded, returning his smile.

They cleaned up in the bath together and spent the rest of the day on the couch, watching football and dozing, getting up only to feed the fire or answer the door for the pizza delivery. Dana lay against Greg's lean body, enfolded in his arms, and felt her heart swell with happiness. _I know this won't last, _she thought, _I know there are difficult times ahead,_ _but right now, in this moment, it's enough for both of us._

"What are you thinking?" Greg's quiet voice broke into her musings. Dana reached up to stroke his cheek, trace the line of his bottom lip.

"That I'm happy," she said. "I hope you are too."

"Mmm," he said after a long pause. There was bewilderment in the sound he made, and a sort of pleased, yet somewhat anxious surprise as well. "I am."

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. _**


	10. Session 7

**_(A fic recommendation for you: if you haven't discovered BabalooBlue's work yet, you're in for a treat. She is currently posting chapters of _The Gift_, a post-finale story. It's not an easy read, but it's absolutely wonderful and well worth your time. -B) _**

_October 31st_

Tonight is the annual PPTH Halloween fundraising event, a must-attend function even for department heads on short-term leave. Normally he'd blow it off like he does most non-essential stuff, but he has a reason for going this year: Dana has said she'll go with him. It's a generous offer, considering she's laying her professional reputation on the line with this action; he knows she is also giving him a practical demonstration of her trust in him, as well as furthering his own therapeutic progress. And of course he won't pass up an opportunity to observe her behavior among relative strangers, to analyze and study later.

At least she doesn't insist on wearing a costume. He'd really figured her for someone who would go all out, but no."Putting on a character is an essential part of my everyday work," she says when he mentions it. "I don't really want to do more of the same to celebrate a holiday."

"About your everyday work . . . made any decisions?" He knows he's pushing her good nature with that question. Over the last few weeks they've discussed her practice and how it affects their personal relationship. He knows it's every degree of unreasonable, but he doesn't want her having sex with other people, even in the course of therapy. He's been honest with her about it; he will admit to perhaps using a guilt trip or two in with the truthful discourse, because he plans to win this argument. In the last few days he's resorted to what could be considered nagging, mainly because she's not giving him the answer he wants. The result has been something of a standoff. It's the first real argument they've had since they became lovers as well as patient and therapist, and it is causing a good deal of tension.

Dana puts down her brush. She looks at him via the reflection in the bathroom mirror. "I'm still considering it," she says in a tone that warns him to go to a different subject. She looks tired, and there's a line between her brows he doesn't see often. Something's bothering her besides the discussion about her work, but she hasn't said anything; her silence makes him anxious. Their time together has been great, but he's known from the beginning it's too good to last. Might as well see what it takes to break the happiness streak.

"Not much to consider," he says. "I suggest you stop having sex with other people, you say yes or no. Simple."

She sits there watching him, her expression inscrutable. After a moment she says "How would you feel if I asked you to stop conducting differential diagnoses with your fellows?"

"Faulty logic," he says, pouncing on the obvious flaw. "I'm not having sex with them."

"Doesn't matter. I don't like having you work with them every day," she says quietly. "In my opinion it's fair to ask that you stop, because I'm jealous."

"Again, I'm not having sex with them," he says, not bothering to deny the jealousy. He's always been possessive of the women he sleeps with.

"Faulty logic," she tosses right back at him. "You're deliberately missing the point. But let's discuss it anyway, since you've decided to see it as a priority. You and I make love because we care about each other—"

"_You_ care about me. I just like sex on a regular basis," he throws in. Dana lets him speak, then continues.

"In my practice sex is a therapeutic tool, a technique for discovering problems like hidden fear and post-traumatic stress." Her voice is terse now, the soft tones strained. "You are implying I'm cheating on you when I'm simply using a method to help someone find healing. I might as well accuse you of cheating on me when you're in conference with your team."

"So let me see if I understand your abstract. You're claiming what we have between us is special, while sex between you and another patient is just mechanics. You only get off on fucking if it's you and me." He is openly ridiculing her now, even though that little voice deep inside is warning him to stop.

"Greg." She stands up and turns to face him. Her expression is impassive, but he can see the pain he's causing; it's in the stormy grey of her eyes, the way her soft mouth doesn't hold its usual slight smile. "I refuse to defend how I do my work, to you or anyone else. You knew from the start that I use sex as part of my therapy, and by the way," her voice shakes a little, "I do not _fuck_ my patients, or you either."

"Semantics," he says with a shrug.

"No it isn't, but you're not drawing me into a fight about it. Either you trust me to be faithful or you don't. I said I would give you my answer tomorrow. I'm not talking about this again until then." She goes to the closet and takes out a dress, a little black number. It's actually fairly modest, but he knows she'll fill it out nicely. "You should get ready, we'll be late."

"You've already made your decision," he says in accusation.

"No, I haven't. I'm still thinking about it. What are you going to wear?"

"What I've got on," he says. "It's not black tie." He watches her put on the dress. There are no angry, jerky movements, but he knows she's struggling to hold in her temper. Without comment she moves to the chest of drawers and takes out a small, worn wooden box, the one in which she keeps her jewelry. She opens it and removes a simple diamond tennis bracelet, clasps it around her wrist, and adds diamond stud earrings to complete the look. It's exactly right, just enough bling to make everything fall into place without being tacky or showy; she looks fantastic, sexy and alluring because she has classic good taste and beauty, both inside and out. She slips her feet into low-heeled patent pumps and leaves the room without speaking. Greg follows her to find she's taking her coat from the hall closet. He picks up his pea jacket from the chair where he dumped it, and they're on their way.

The drive to Princeton is accomplished in silence, just the radio playing. Dana dozes off about ten minutes in. Greg knows their extended argument has caused her sleepless nights; he's heard her up in the small hours, playing the piano with the damper down, or working on patient files. Now he sees there are faint smudges under her eyes, and the line between her brows is still in evidence. Something else is bothering her, something she either can't or won't talk about with him. He should stop pushing her. So he pushes a little harder, to see what she'll do.

"Gonna shop for new patients tonight?"

Dana blinks awake. It takes a few seconds for his words to register. Then she looks away, but not before he sees the hurt in her expression.

"You know I take referrals only."

"Always a first time. But then that was a while ago. How old were you? Thirteen, fourteen? Or maybe you saw your destiny even earlier on."

She stares out the window. "If you want to call me a whore, just do it," she says quietly. "Is that what this is about? You really are so hung up on my work you'll resort to cruelty to get an answer?"

"It isn't cruel if it's true."

Dana is silent for a moment or two. "I was twenty years old when I offered my virginity to a wonderful young man. It was a joyous experience in every way. I will not allow you to walk through that memory with dirty feet."

"Quoting Gandhi just so you can take the high road and try to make me feel bad," he says, but she doesn't reply. For the rest of the drive she is silent, though he plies her with cheerful small talk; she's not an idiot, she knows when she's being mocked. As they pull into the valet line, she opens the door and gets out, waits for him. House watches her. Of course she wouldn't abandon him; while they're lovers, he's also her patient. She doesn't look angry, but he knows all the same that she's had enough. And he also knows he's not done with her, not yet.

The party is being held at the Pavilion, an annex building to PPTH. It's mainly for individual practices taken over by or allied with the hospital, but it has an enormous conference area that's easily converted to a dance floor. When they walk in the place is full of attendees, some in costume, most in designer outfits—what passes for dressy casual among professionals. He catches a glimpse of Cuddy at a corner table, chatting with a prosperous-looking couple; working on donations, undoubtedly. Wilson's nowhere to be seen, but then he's probably banging a nurse on the plastic-covered back seat of his Volvo, or fussing over his hair in the ladies room. There's a band battling the noise of talk and laughter, a five-piece group attempting to sound cool and sophisticated, apparently unaware no one's paying any attention to them, though a few people are dancing.

Once they've crossed the floor and reached the cash bar, Dana turns to him. "I need to find a bathroom," she says quietly. Will you be all right here by yourself for a few minutes?"

Her willingness to care for him in the middle of a nasty argument is all the more impressive because he knows it's genuine. "Go ahead, dump me because you're pissed off," he says. Her expression changes from concern to pain, and then impassivity. Without another word she moves away and goes off into the crowd. He watches her. Her head is up, her back very straight. The sight of her walking away, leaving him alone, should fill him with panic. And yet while the anxiety is there, he can handle it. He knows that's down to his therapist and her immense skill and patience in showing him how to acknowledge the fear, then set it aside. With reluctance he feels a moment of deep shame at the way he's baiting her, and decides to numb his guilt with some alcohol.

He's nursing the evening's first shot of whiskey when someone says "Greg." He knows who it is before he turns around. Stacy stands a few feet away, smiling. She comes up to him. "Fancy meeting you here. You look . . ." She gives him a top-to-bottom perusal. "You look great." She sounds surprised. "How are you?"

"Where's the ball and chain?" He downs the rest of the shot and nods at the bartender. Stacy moves to the spot next to Greg and puts a ten on the counter.

"Bourbon on the rocks please," she says to the bartender, and turns to face Greg. "Mark and I . . . we divorced last year. It was a mutual decision." She gives him another once-over, this one more subtle. "You've been taking care of yourself."

Greg lifts an eyebrow. "You always were a fast worker," he says. Stacy chuckles wryly. Her dark eyes gleam with humor.

"Not that fast." She takes her drink when it's brought to her, sips it. "I'm just asking how you're doing."

"Fantastic," he lies, and shoots a quick look at the place where Dana disappeared; no sign of her yet.

"You're here with someone?" There's a slight lilt of interest in Stacy's tone. He knows it well.

"You're not," he says, and takes his whiskey in hand.

"Combining business with pleasure. I'm working with several hospitals to shape up their malpractice protocols. PPTH is one of them."

"Slumming, for a Constitutional lawyer," he points out. "You're wasting your talents here when you should be arguing in front of a bunch of ancient stiffs in black robes down in DC."

"They're my talents to waste." She glances out at the room. "Care to dance?"

It's a bad idea, a very bad idea. "Why not?" he says, to Stacy's evident surprise. He downs his shot—false courage never hurts-and follows her to the small open area near the band. She fits into his arms the way she always did; she hasn't gained weight, and her moves are as confident and elegant as ever, though constrained by his inability to do much more than shuffle.

"Whatever technique your therapist is using, it's working," Stacy is saying. "I'm so glad things are better for you, Greg. It's been a long time since you—" She hesitates, trying to find the right words. "Since you've looked this good," she finishes. He says nothing, just continues to move with her. It brings back old memories, holding her like this—the days when they had everything ahead of them, successful careers, shared interests and outlook; he was whole and pain-free and in love . . . He draws a startled breath as the truth force-breaks its way into his mind at last, a truth he's been shoving away with both hands for weeks now. He has all those things with Dana, but he's about to lose them because of his blind obsession with one sticking point, and his need to destroy any happiness that comes his way. If he's truthful, he can live with the sex therapy aspect of her work; he won't ever like it, but if he really wants to, he can set it aside. Instead he's turned it into an ultimatum, and for nothing more than his own ego's gratification. And to satisfy his own self-fulfilling prophecy of ruining the good things that come into his life. It's an utterly stupid act, worthy of Wilson at his most manipulative and irrational.

"_Dammit_," he says, disgusted with his never-ending capability for creating disaster. He's managed to fuck up everything the way he always does, but there's still a chance he can stop this train wreck if he acts now, if he finds Dana and says all the things he needs to say. He looks past Stacy's shoulder, even as she puts a hand to his cheek.

"What's wrong? Is it your leg?"

He sweeps the room with his gaze, searching the little groups of people, the doorways. He's about to give up when he sees Dana. She's standing apart from everyone, watching him. The diamonds in her ears glitter and spark; she's pale, her expression impossible to read. He stares at her, terror swamping him. She'll walk out, he knows it.

To his astonishment, she comes toward them. Stacy turns to see what he's looking at. Greg feels a quick little quiver go through her, and then Dana is saying "I don't believe we've met." Her tone is polite, respectful.

"No, we haven't," Stacy says. "Stacy Adler." A part of Greg notes she's using her maiden name again. She extends her hand. Dana takes it and offers a firm shake.

"Dana Gardener," she says, and looks at Greg. "I'm not feeling well. If you don't mind, I'm going to call it an evening and go home."

"I drove you here," he says, fighting panic. She's slipping away and he can't stop it, and it's his fault, his own damn idiotic fault. "I'll—I'll take you back."

Dana gives him a quick, assessing glance—checking to see if he's mocking her. "All right," she says, and turns to Stacy. She smiles slightly. The sight of it strikes deep into his heart; he knows that one simple gesture has caused her more pain than he's ever felt in his entire life. "It's been good to meet you at last, Ms Adler. Please enjoy your evening." She looks at Greg again. "I'll meet you at the car." With that she nods at them both and walks away. Stacy slaps his arm, a sharp little angry smack.

"You _idiot_," she hisses, "you're with her and you said she was just your _therapist_!"

Without answering he pushes away from Stacy and plunges into the crowd, ignoring the fear that swells up inside. He shoves past knots of people, oblivious to his disruption of their groups, and arrives at the entrance to find Dana talking to the valet. He breathes an unacknowledged sigh of relief; he'd thought for sure she would just take a cab home and leave him there.

The ride to Philadelphia is made in silence. She sits beside him with her head tipped back against the rest, eyes closed. For once he doesn't give in to the urge to talk or argue; he doesn't know what to say that won't make things worse, if that's possible. Maybe once they're home he can salvage the situation somehow.

When they reach Dana's place she walks in with him, goes into the back. He follows her to their bedroom. She doesn't ignore him, but she goes about the business of undressing just as she always does—jewelry removed and put away, clothes off and bathrobe on, a few minutes in the bathroom to wash. When she emerges she stands there watching him. She looks tired and sad and even worse, resigned. He knows that expression, he's seen it before in other faces, and it always means sooner or later he'll be kicked out.

Without a word she leads the way to the terrace. There's a single lamp providing light. Dana takes her usual seat, but he remains standing, glowering at her. He has to tell her what he's understood finally, but he doesn't know how to do it.

"Gregory, do you trust me?" she asks after a brief silence, her voice neutral, quiet.

"I could ask you the same thing," he snaps. He's shaking.

"You may ask me anything you like, after you answer my question."

He passes a hand over his face. "Of course I trust you."

Dana leans forward just a little. "Liar." Her gaze is steady, direct. He can't hold it; he looks away.

"Why'd you ask then, if you already know?"

She just watches him. "Ask your question."

"Do you trust _me_?" he says, defiant and sarcastic.

"I don't know now," she says simply. That stops him in his tracks. He stares at her, shocked. "The woman you were with tonight . . . she was the one with whom you shared the townhouse, wasn't she?"

It figures she'd remember that remark, goddammit. "Yes." He fidgets with his cane. "We lived together for a few years, before—" He stops.

"Before the blood clot," Dana says. She's so calm, so matter-of-fact. "Do you still love her?"

"I'm not having an affair with her, if that's what you're thinking." He limps to the doors leading to the little container garden; the pots are empty now, ready for the killing cold of winter. Beyond them lies the Philly skyline, distant and glittering. "I can't love anyone." Even as he says it he knows it's not true.

"Another lie." He flinches. "What you mean is, you won't trust anyone. You don't trust me."

"That's—that's not—I-"

"You've been pushing me to give up an essential part of my work for weeks now because you won't trust me to be faithful to you, even when I've given you my promise several times. I've done my best to demonstrate my trustworthiness but it isn't enough, is it? It'll never be enough, because you've decided no one can be trusted, not even me."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

"I understand you've had many people break their word with you. They've hurt you, betrayed and rejected you. I am not one of them." Dana's soft voice holds absolute conviction.

"But you will be," he says. He doesn't want to say it; he wants to take her in his arms and tell her what he's discovered. Instead she's still slipping away, further and further.

She gets to her feet. "I think you just used the safe word. Time to stop."

He turns to her, his stomach sinking. "Gardener—Dana—"

"You can either take your things with you tonight, or I'll have them delivered. As for therapy, I can recommend someone, if you like."

He moves in front of her. "You—you're kicking me out."

"_No __I'm __**not**_." She turns on him, and at last she shows-not the anger he's been expecting, more of a wild, helpless frustration. Still, it's an impressive display. He cringes away from her, even as he knows he brought this on deliberately, and now he's paying for all the prodding he's done. "You're doing that yourself because you're a stubborn idiot! You've decided that because a thousand other people have hurt and betrayed you, I will too! Well, I haven't. And I won't." That last statement is flat, emphatic; she means it. "Believe me or not, that's your choice. But I won't live with someone who doesn't trust me."

"So I have to leave." He can't keep the bitterness from leaching out.

"I don't want you to," she says. He can barely hear her now. "I . . . I don't want to lose you, and what we've built together. It's precious, to me at least. But if there's no trust, it'll just get worse until we'll end up hating each other. And I couldn't—couldn't bear it if we . . ." Her voice trails off. She draws in a shaking breath and he realizes with a shock that now she's one step away from breaking down. He limps over to stand before her.

"Dana," he says hoarsely. She doesn't resist, won't look at him. "There's something else, there has been for some time."

She doesn't answer at first, and it nearly kills him that she's wary of telling him whatever it is, afraid he'll hurt her even more. Before he'd started this fight, she would have answered without hesitation. "Two years ago my father died on Halloween, after a very long struggle with illness and dependence," she says. The enormity of her pain is revealed for just a moment; then it's gone once more.

"You didn't trust _me_ enough to let me know," he says sharply, distressed by her suffering.

"No, I do—did, but . . ." She hesitates. "It's my burden to carry, not yours. You've been through enough pain." Very slowly she moves away from him. "I'll get your things."

Half an hour later he's on his way back to Princeton, numb with disbelief and a growing fear he's never really felt before.

"_Bonne chance_, Gregory. Remember, if you change your mind my door is always open. Always," she'd said, and kissed his cheek. She'd been trembling, and there were tears in her grey eyes, spilling out to fall down her pale cheeks. And then she was gone.

When he gets to his place he goes into the kitchen and gets the bottle of bourbon out of the cupboard. He pours a shot, downs it and looks around. Dana's presence is everywhere, from the bright little sun-catchers hanging in the window to the bag of croissants on the bread board. He refills the glass, takes the bottle and goes into the living room. She's here too; the soft, lavender-scented blanket-throw on the back of the sofa, an orderly pile of fruitwood on the hearth with her beloved pine cones in a basket next to it; dog-eared psychology journals, bedecked with wine and coffee rings, stacked on the end table . . . there are even some of her clothes in his closet, and her shampoo on a corner of the bathtub. He sits heavily on the sofa and listens to the quiet. After a moment he downs the shot and pours another, doing his best to destroy his awareness of how very alone he is now.

He wakes much later to find he's crashed out face-down, weak sunlight filtering through the window. It illuminates the inside of his head to reveal the start of a massive hangover. Slowly he sits up, wincing as his leg gives a warning spasm; the TENS unit needs new batteries. He looks around with bleary eyes, spots the half-empty bottle of bourbon on the coffee table. With shaking hands he pours a shot into the glass, then brings it to his lips and dumps it in. A little later he'll make some coffee, but for now this is the best way to deal with the new day. And to make plans to get Dana back. He's not giving up, not yet. Not ever. He might have been stupid enough to push too hard, but he'll do everything he can to regain her trust, no matter what it takes.

_Because you love her_, that small voice whispers—the same voice that told him to look through the coat pockets for food all those years ago, a true voice, and right. He listens to it at last, and knows what he has to do.

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome. _**


	11. Session 8

**_(The Reading Terminal Market is a real place in Philadelphia, a wonderful year-round indoor farmer's market with all sorts of delightful places to explore. I've visited a number of times, so Dana's experiences to a large extent are drawn from mine. -B)_**

_November 1st_

"So what are you gonna do?" Wilson watched House as he settled into the couch with a container of mu shu pork—and all the pancakes, including the extras. House shot him a look.

"About what?" He grabbed a pancake, loaded it with pork and shoveled it in.

"About your—whatever she is now," Wilson waved his chopsticks. "Your ex."

House chewed noisily, swallowed, took a long swig of beer and belched. "She's not my ex."

"Ex-therapist, ex-lover . . . I think she qualifies." Wilson stuck the chopsticks in his container and brought up a wad of lo mein. He fitted most of it into his mouth and took an enormous bite, eyes closing in bliss at the explosion of flavors—no doubt from lethal amounts of MSG and salt, but what the hell, it tasted good. And someone else cooked it, which made it even better.

"She doesn't qualify as an ex-anything." There was a warning note in House's voice now. Wilson glanced over at him as he poked around for some sprouts.

"Oho," he said as comprehension dawned. "I get it, I get it completely now. Of course she's not an ex."

"Shut up."

"You, the ever-infallible Gregory House, have realized you're in the wrong and-low it be spoken—"

"_Wilson_."

"—for you to return to paying someone to spank you, an apology is required." He began to smile as the full import of this plot disclosed itself. "You're planning to _grovel_."

"You know, I could get you drunk, take pictures of your pathetic excuse for a dick and post the shots to the 'Oncology In Action' section of the PPTH website."

"You wouldn't bother with any of this if you didn't feel something for her." Wilson set down the container, stunned by a sudden insight. "You _love_ her. Oh my . . . oh my _god_, House."

House sighed. "Don't make me stuff you in the fridge again."

"You've never done this for anyone else, never even considered it . . ." Wilson picked up his beer. "Why her? Is it just the sex? I mean, she is smart. And gorgeous, with those big—" He caught House's glare. "I was going to say 'eyes'."

"Of course you were." House picked up a pancake, set it down again. He stirred the pork with a chopstick. "Maybe I like someone cooking and picking up after me."

"Get a housekeeper. Cheaper and no emotional turmoil."

"The one I want is easy on the eyes and in this country legally." He set the container aside, picked up his beer. "She doesn't trust me," he said, more to himself than Wilson.

"Ah." Wilson nodded. House cast a baleful squint his way.

"Don't bother to explain."

"While that might be true—"

"_Jesus,_ Wilson. I told you not to explain."

"-and if it is, I congratulate Doctor Gardener on her wisdom—it's more the case that you don't trust _her_, therefore . . ." He made a slow, graceful arc with the chopsticks, "she doesn't trust _you_. Typical Houseian projection."

"Everybody lies," House said. The bitterness in the words gave Wilson pause.

"Yes—yes, they do. But not all the time, however. And in this particular case, not much at all." He watched House as he said it and was rewarded with a grunt and another belch. "Have you—"

"Drop it," House said, and it was clear he meant it. Wilson took the hint—well, command, more like—but later, as they watched a rerun of the original _Die Hard_, he said quietly,

"If she gave you a chance to come back, you'd be a fool not to take it."

House lowered his beer. "You keep giving me your opinion."

"I'm entitled. It's the main reason why I'm here tonight." Wilson glanced at his friend. "Seriously, don't let this one go. She's good for you."

House didn't answer right away. "The fuck she is," he said finally. Wilson smiled a little.

"Great. Now that we have that settled, shut up and watch the damn movie."

_November 3rd_

"Market East! Market East, next stop!"

Dana looked up from her paperback as the conductor walked past. She glanced out the window at the tiled walls as they slid by, then tucked her book in her purse. Some of the other passengers began to get ready to leave. She observed them, but didn't feel any of her usual interest in doing so; it was as if a thin sheet of clear glass existed between her and them. In the flat fluorescent light everyone looked cold and tired, a little sinister; just another workday starting in the city, bleak and grey.

The walk to Reading Terminal was short, if chilly. She huddled in her coat as a chill, damp wind blew her hair around and tugged at her shopping basket, but it just made her entry into the Market more welcome than usual. It was warm and fragrant in the big building. The smell of fresh bread and grilled meat made her stomach rumble, though she didn't feel hungry—just empty in a way food would never resolve, except in temporary fashion.

She had coffee at the Market Bakery, exchanging idle chit-chat with the server while she reviewed her shopping list. "You really should have a treat to go with the coffee," the younger woman said. "How about a slice of pumpkin nut bread? It's fresh, I took it out of the oven an hour ago."

Dana smiled a little. "I'm all right, thanks. Just getting over something." _Not something, someone,_ she thought, and endured the immense pain that thought caused, just as she'd endured it from the moment Greg had left three days ago. She wanted him there beside her, wolfing down an enormous breakfast she would pay for of course, teasing her about the length of her list, copping a feel and whispering outrageous remarks in her ear. _But he doesn't belong to me anymore, nor I to him_, she thought, and closed her eyes for a moment, willing back an aching sorrow she knew would stay with her for a long time.

She bought chocolate croissants and a baguette, contemplated a brioche but decided against it, and moved on to Fair Food to pick up some cheese and perhaps produce. She was looking over fresh salad ingredients when something, some tingle of awareness, told her she was being watched. Slowly she turned her head as if scanning the stalls for another item, and jumped when someone spoke behind her.

"Hmm, checking out the cucumbers. You must really miss me."

Greg stood a few feet away. He wore sunglasses along with his usual combination of jeans, layered shirts, pea coat and ornate trainers, a new cane polished and gleaming at his side. But his hair looked like it hadn't seen a comb since Sunday, and his hand trembled a little as it rested on the cane grip.

"Doctor House," she said quietly. Her heart was skipping beats.

"Doctor Gardener." He came a little closer. Dana didn't move.

"Why are you here?"

"Because you're as predictable as an alarm clock. You always shop here on alternate Wednesday mornings." He hesitated. "Haven't heard from you. Thought I'd see how you're doing."

"I'm fine." It was easy to lie, she'd been doing it for three days now. "And-and you?"

"Nothing a session being tied up and smacked around wouldn't cure." He reached up, eased his sunglasses down to reveal those blue, blue eyes. "Let's go to your place and get out the leather."

His mockery hurt. "I don't think so," she said, and heard the distance in her voice. So did Greg. He lowered his gaze, but not before she saw something like fear flicker over his features.

"I am a referral, remember."

"Not anymore." She abandoned the produce section and went over to the cheese case. Greg followed her.

"I'm still wearing everything you gave me," he said. Now he sounded defensive. "Doesn't sound much like a closed file to me."

Dana wouldn't look at him. She turned to the clerk. "I'll take a container of the herbed brie, please."

"Add a pound of the farmhouse cheddar," Greg said. "That stuff's great with sausage." He gave the clerk a broad wink. Dana felt pain spear her heart. She faced him.

"What do you really want?" she said, and now the politeness was gone. "I'd appreciate an honest answer."

"You back with me." He stared at her, a challenge in those vivid eyes now. "You want it too, or you wouldn't look like you haven't slept in the last three days."

"For the record, I was never with you, you made that very plain. Anyway—" She stopped, pushed away the emotion threatening to overwhelm her, went on. "Anyway, what I want and what's good for me are two different things." She turned and addressed the clerk once more. "Some of the Camembert as well, please."

"So that's it. You're just giving up because I hurt you." His voice was harsh with disgust. "If that's all it takes—"

"No, that _isn't_ all!" she snapped. "I've had people hurt me before this." She stared down at the case full of colorful waxed rounds and wrapped slices, unable to focus. "Trust," she said finally. The rest of the words caught in her throat.

"You don't trust cheese? Me neither."

Dana closed her eyes for a moment, caught between laughter and pain. "That's all, thank you," she said to the clerk, who was listening avidly to their conversation. Now she glanced at Greg. "Say what you have to say, and then just—just go."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Keep everything all tidy and neat and under your control by sending me away." Greg came closer. "Fine. Here it is, then. I was wrong to ask you to give up therapeutic sex in your practice."

His capitulation was too neat, too perfect. Dana looked down her nose at him. "_Dites-vous que pour obtenir ce que vous voulez?_" She made her skepticism plain. Greg rolled his eyes.

"Of course, but that doesn't mean I'm not being truthful. I'm not saying I like it. I'm just saying . . . I can live with it."

"Until you decide to make an issue of it again." She sucked in her breath at remembered hurt. "You called me a _whore_."

"I won't ever play nice. Don't expect me to," he said sharply.

"I don't expect anything from you," Dana said on a sigh. "Go to work, Greg."

"Still on sick leave." He followed her to the register. "If you're gonna fill up that basket you'll need a ride home or risk getting mugged on the train."

"I'll be fine." She added two dozen eggs to her purchase, paid for the items, stowed them with care and headed off to the next stop.

"Where to now?" Greg sounded cheerful. Dana turned on him.

"_Stop_ it." She hated how her voice trembled, but suddenly she'd had enough. Having him so close and yet utterly unreachable was too much to bear. "Just—just stop pretending. You'll never trust me, you think I—I would—oh, just go!"

"Hey lady." A man passing by pushing a hand truck stacked with boxes stopped and frowned at Greg. "This guy botherin' you?"

"No, this guy isn't," Greg snapped. "Mind your own business, dickwad."

"Watch it, mook," the guy said in a warning tone. Dana almost stamped her foot.

"That's _enough_, both of you!" she snapped. "_C'est des conneries_!" Fed up, she took off down the walkway, stormed into the Herbiary and paused to collect her thoughts.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Greg wanted to know as he limped in behind her. "Herbal tinctures? What century are you from again?" He moved in and picked up a bottle of arnica oil. "Ah, I see. Voodoo," he said in a deep tone of utter doom. Dana took the bottle from his hand. Their fingers touched; it felt like a jolt off a live wire. She pulled away and set the bottle back on the shelf.

"You felt that too," Greg said softly. "I saw you jump."

"Static electricity," Dana said, avoiding his gaze.

"Uh uh. You know what it is. We have something between us." He was close enough now for her to smell him. The familiar scent of tobacco, coffee and male musk brought her longing for him into focus.

"What do you want me to say?" She could barely get the words out. "That having you gone is like having my heart missing? That I wake up alone and feel like the only person left on the entire planet? That I wish I could do what you want me to and give up my work? There, I said it. Now you know." She couldn't keep the bitterness at bay; it spilled over, flooding everything. "You've accomplished your mission. For the first time in my life, I feel guilty about what I do. Gloat all you like over that, I hope you enjoy it—"

"Dana!" Greg took the basket from her, set it down, gripped her forearms with hands that shook, his gaze pinned to hers, his expression filled with a desperation so profound it took her breath away. "Shut up and _listen_ to me! I'm a jealous asshole, I admit it. But I never wanted you to feel ashamed of your work. You . . ." He loosened his grasp, began to stroke her gently, his hands moving up and down. "What you do—you bring healing to people. Even to me. More healing than I . . . than I realized."

She shook her head. "Just words."

"Okay—then let's go back to your place and I'll show you." He leaned in. Dana hesitated, torn between wariness and desire, longing for him to come closer. "Come on, Gardener. You said yourself the door was always open. Let me in so I can _show_ you," he said again softly.

[H]

It feels like it's been a lifetime since he stood on this platform naked, his wrists and ankles bound with leather cuffs, the smooth wood of the Saint Andrew's cross pressed against his body. He's blindfolded at his insistence—well, all of this is at his insistence, when it comes down to that. She's even made him pay her fee out of pocket, the little cheapskate.

"For this to mean anything to either of us, there must be an equal exchange," she'd said, as cool and reserved as you please. But he'd seen the pain there, the sorrow she keeps so carefully stored away, and known it was the right thing to do, even if it did cost him three c-notes.

"So . . . do you think you need to be punished, Gregory?" Her soft voice holds a silky purr with an edge to it.

"I . . . don't know, M'lady," he says.

"Ah, but I think you do." The edge is stronger now, darker. She comes a little closer; he hears the rustle of the silk robe she wears and wants her so badly the desire almost makes him gasp. "Part of you believes you've gained the upper hand with me, and that's something you've wanted all along. Your genius is your tool for picking the lock of other peoples motivations, their weaknesses and flaws. And you found one of mine, didn't you?"

"Did I?" he dares to ask, and flinches as a hand cups his right buttock.

"You know you did. Betrayal," she draws the word out, her thumb stroking the underside of his cheek. "The night I let you tie my wrists and offered myself to you, you learned one of my worst fears. And you tucked that knowledge away to use against me later, when your ego rose up and demanded a tribute as a sign of your gaining the upper hand. Still, if we set aside the power games and focus on the issue you chose to find objectionable, we both know what happens if I give in. If I allow you to dictate how I conduct my practice in one area, it won't be enough. And you'll start to feel contempt for me, because I capitulated. You'll know that you can ignore my safe word."

He is silent, because she's right. The comparison to the master who hurt her is galling, but he's earned it. Her fingers caress him, give him a little pat. Somehow that simple gesture fills him with apprehension.

"Now, let's see . . ." He hears her sort through the instruments on the tray next to him. He caught a glimpse of the selection before she blindfolded him, so he knows they're all straps. Dread makes his stomach sink in an all-too-familiar sensation of sudden dread. She wouldn't . . . would she?

_No,_ he tells himself. _No, she won't. Come on, you know you have to prove you trust her. She won't hurt you. _

"You're wondering . . . will she use it?" He flinches and can't help a tug at his bonds, but he's fastened too securely—he can't escape. "Will she decide that ten good ones with the buckle end are what you need to teach you who's really in charge?" He swallows on a throat gone dry. "Because in this place, and in this moment, when I work with a patient, and that most definitely includes you, I hold the power. And I will use whatever methods I see fit, whether you approve of them or not. That will never change." Her voice has gone cold, flat. "Either you accept it or I won't see you again, Gregory. Not here, not in public or private, not anywhere. Do you understand?"

She means it. He still can't help but push her on this. "Princeton isn't that far away," he says. "We're bound to bump into each other."

"I have no ties here. If necessary I'll move." The absolute truth in her words terrifies him even almost as much as the knowledge of the strap in her hand. "Yes or no. Make up your mind. I won't remind you again to give me my title when you address me."

"You're using intimidation to get the answer you want, _M__'lady,_" he snarls at her.

"Am I? Or is it your unwillingness to truly trust me that has you frightened of what I might do? You still have my promise, one I have never broken. And if you don't believe in that, as a last resort you have a safe word, Gregory. Say the word, and all this ends. You already know I will honor that agreement between us."

Dammit, busted. He tugs at his wrist bonds and tenses as she draws close. He freezes, his heart beginning to hammer despite her words. After a moment Dana stands next to him. Her face is mere inches from his, he can feel it.

"Listen to me." Her voice is barely more than a breath. "My tools are not instruments of abuse or injury. They will never strike you in anger or contempt or hatred. They will never, _never_ harm you or make bruises or leave bloody welts. They won't do any of those things because I-I won't ever do any of those things. You have my promise. Now, for the last time . . . do I continue, or do we stop here?"

It takes every single molecule of willpower he has left, but after a moment he nods. "Go ahead, M'lady," he whispers finally. "I . . . I trust you."

There's a long pause, and then her fingers work the knot at the back of the blindfold, lift away the folds of silk. He blinks, turns his head to focus on her. She raises her hand, and shows it to him; it's empty. When her arms slip around him he lets go a breath he hadn't known he was holding. It sounds almost like a sob. Her small hands caress him, stroke his pectorals and diaphragm and belly as she presses gently against his back.

How long they stay that way, he doesn't know. Eventually he feels Dana move away and he wants to protest, but when she releases his ankles and wrists, he stumbles as he turns around, gropes for her, feels her come to him. He pulls her into his embrace and she enters it without resistance. Her cheeks are wet, and her kiss tastes like salt and copper; she bit her lip so hard at some point she broke the skin. When the kiss ends she buries her face in his chest.

"I would never hurt you," she whispers, "_never_," and he knows now beyond all doubt that it's the truth.

"I'm sorry," he says against her soft hair, "Dana, I'm sorry," and feels her arms tighten gently. After a moment she nods.

Eventually they go down the hall to their bedroom, her arm around his waist as he limps beside her. When she opens the door, the room is in darkness and rain falls past the window, but it's warm here, and welcoming. Dana moves ahead to switch on the lamp. It reveals everything as he remembers it, nothing changed. She turns to him, but he stays where he is.

"You won't hurt me, but I'll hurt you again," he says harshly. He has one last chance to say it before they have sex—no, before they make love; he has to make sure she understands before they go forward. "You know I will."

"Yes, I know," she says softly. He stares at her.

"Then why—"

"Because I love you. Because it's part of who you are, and I understand why you do it." She stands by the bed. In the soft mellow light she looks like an idol carved from ivory, her thick hair a cloud of burnished, ancient gold around her face. "That doesn't mean I won't challenge you, or get angry sometimes. But in the end it doesn't matter, Gregory." She lifts her chin a bit. "I will continue to use sex therapy to help my patients."

"That sucks, but I can live with it as long as you give me pertinent details afterwards." She rolls her eyes but makes no comment. "Why didn't you tell me about your father's death anniversary? That wasn't trust."

"No, it was my wanting to protect you from my own pain. It was wrong of me, and I'm sorry." Her gaze is steady, unwavering. "But you've already endured so much pain . . . I didn't want to add to it."

It's exactly what she said on Sunday, and he knows it's the truth. He lowers his head, both annoyed and profoundly humbled by the depth of her compassion, and embarrassed too; he's not worth any of this outpouring. "How can you love me?" he mutters, and looks up in surprise when she comes to him.

"How could I not?" she says, and kisses him. "My beautiful man," she puts her hand to his face. He turns his head and kisses her palm the way she does with him sometimes, the only way he knows how to show her he loves her too, and she draws in her breath softly, trembling. When she looks at him he sees that she understands what he's just said without words.

They topple to the bed together, forced to go slow and careful because of his leg, but once they're lying side by side they can't get enough of each other. They stroke and caress, sigh and moan as he enters her, move together to a hard, urgent rhythm until release spills out of them and they end up in each other's arms, spent, exhausted and sodden with afterglow. Outside the cold rain falls, but here, in this warm and golden moment, they have each other.

"Still gonna move?" he asks eventually, after she's brought the old quilt over both of them.

"Don't think I can," she says, and rests her cheek on his shoulder as he chuckles in rueful but pleased agreement. Slowly they settle in, listening to the raindrops on the windowpanes. Just when he thinks she's asleep she says softly, "What happens next?"

"Well . . ." He moves a lock of her hair from her forehead, loving the feel of her smooth skin under his touch. "We should probably go to the kitchen and put away the groceries."

Dana smiles, he feels her lips curve against his skin. "Okay. In a while. For now . . . let's just stay here."

"Yeah," he nuzzles her hair, closes his eyes and lets go a quiet sigh of profound relief, as close to a prayer of thanks as he'll ever get. "Right here."

A few hours later, while they're in the kitchen making supper, he says "Tell me about your father's dying."

Dana puts down the spoon she's using to taste the _boeuf bourgignon_. She turns to look at him. She has a flower-patterned apron tied over her sweater and jeans, and her soft cloud of hair is pulled back in a ponytail; she looks about seventeen, and for a moment he sees her as she would have been at that age, a devastating combination of innocence and seductive potential, all the more powerful for being unconscious.

"Sit down with me," she says, puts the lid on her treasured enameled-iron braising pot and closes the oven door before she takes a seat at the table. Greg sits next to her. She clasps his hand in both of hers, a gesture so artless and natural it makes him smile a little.

"It took him a long time to die," she says finally. "He hated the pain and the treatments, how it kept him from his music, because he thought that was all he had, even with me there. Finally he gave in, he had no choice. But it was bit by bit, because he was afraid." She looks away. "I wanted him to die. It felt like the worst kind of betrayal of him and of me too, wishing him dead. And it went on for many months." She sighs softly. "He suffered greatly, and he made everyone around him suffer too."

"You're still angry with him for it," Greg says.

"Yes, a little. Not as much as before." She tilts her head, looks at him. "You think I'm comparing you with him."

"The thought did cross my mind," he says with considerable sarcasm, but strokes the back of her hand with his thumb to take the sting out of his words.

"First of all, you're not dying. You're faced with chronic pain, but you're willing to take care of yourself if you have some support and encouragement." Her fingers tighten on his gently.

"Don't whitewash it," he says sharply. "I've always made things worse whenever possible."

"You tried to stop hurting any way you could," she says. There is no pity, just truth, and sadness. "Desperation can make you do stupid things, things you'd never consider if you were in your right mind and not on fire with hurting." She looks down at their hands and doesn't speak for a few moments. "What's more important to me is that you're able to see outside the circle of what makes you who you are. You care about people, though you don't like to admit it. I love you for that."

"More important than dying?" He looks at her, wanting further explanation. She smiles a little, that slight curve of the lips he's grown to treasure.

"We're all dying, Gregory. But before death takes us away we can make full lives, if we want to." She looks so sad for a moment. "I loved my father because he was _mon père_, the man who helped create me. I choose to love you."

"Not much of a choice," Greg says, making it a joke.

"Ah, now there you're wrong," Dana says, and the sadness is gone. Her grey eyes hold so much love he blinks, astonished. She smiles at him and it's as if his music has come to him in human form, radiant and astonishing in its endless beauty. "It's the best choice I've ever made."

After a lengthy and delicious supper, consumed with what's left of the burgundy used for the main dish, they sit with their easy chairs side by side in soft light of the glassed-in terrace for a long time, content just to be together, watching the nor'easter blow and bluster outside. They talk now and then, a desultory conversation that's important all the same.

"Got plans for Thanksgiving?" Dana gives his right shoulder a gentle massage. He leans into her touch, feeling the knots in his overstrained muscles pop and loosen.

"Not unless you do."

"Just a quiet day here." She lets her hand slide down his arm. "We could roast a turkey."

"Pie," he says. "It's not a holiday without pumpkin pie. And whipped cream."

"Well you'll have to make it then," she says, smiling. "I don't have a clue."

"And the turkey?"

"It's just a big chicken. Isn't it?"

He chuckles and realizes he's missed her sense of humor along with everything else. "You've never made Thanksgiving dinner?"

"No, never. But you could teach me." Her fingers tighten on his.

"No way. I'm not wasting the whole day in the kitchen when we could be making mad monkey love in between watching football games." He brings her hand to his lips, brushes a kiss over the knuckles. "We'll order dinner. Wilson knows all the good places—well, in Princeton anyway." He glances at her. "So we'll go to my place." She nods, but that brings up a question. "What do we do about separate living spaces?"

Dana tilts her head a bit. "I think you should keep your apartment," she says, surprising him. He looks at her, assessing her expression.

"You'll need time off from me," he says.

"More like you'll need time alone." Her soft voice holds understanding. "You're a fellow introvert, but I think I'm a bit more extraverted than you are—you know what that means," she gives him a mock-stern look when he leers at her. "After you've been around people all day you need time to yourself, to recharge, think about things. You can have that here, but I know sometimes you'll want to be alone."

"And you're okay with that," he says, skeptical. She shrugs a bit.

"Yes, of course. That's part of who you are too."

"What if I get the temptation to call up some smokin' hot babe in my little black book to share my loneliness?" He expects her to pull away. Instead her grey eyes fill with what can only be labeled mischief. Slowly she leans in and whispers against his lips,

"I'd be very disappointed if you didn't ask me to join the two of you."

"Wha . . . _whoa_," he stutters, mind blown, and she laughs—the first time he's ever heard her let loose with a real belly laugh, merry and infectious.

"Ha, the look on your face!" she says, grinning, and his love for her wells up within his heart like living water, a pure source he can drink from time and again, and never grow tired of the sweet, clean taste.

"What do you want to do about work?" she asks later, as they lie in bed together. Greg winds a lock of her hair around his finger, enjoying the feel of the silky threads against his skin.

"Don't want to go back," he says. He's been thinking about this for a while now. "Consulting . . . I'd like to try that."

"You'd find plenty of opportunities right here in the Northeast Corridor," Dana says softly. "And some farther afield, if you feel like traveling."

"Travel's a pain in every sense of the word," he grumbles.

"Not if you go first class. Or charter flights."

He turns his head to look at her. "No way you make enough to afford that."

"_Ma pere_ was many things, but unlike most of the musicians I've met, he was never stupid about money. I work because I like working, but if I quit my practice tomorrow things wouldn't change too much. He left me a pile, and some very nice investments too."

Greg absorbs this pleasing information, stroking her neck absently. After a few moments he says "So I get my three hundred bucks back, right?"

Dana leans in to kiss him. "_Non_," she says against his lips. He widens his eyes and tries to sound pathetic.

"_Je suis raide_!"

She laughs. "_Tu es un radin_."

"Look who's talking." He brings her close. "Just for that you're buying Thanksgiving dinner."

"I never thought otherwise." She snuggles in against him. "Do you trust me to take Wilson's advice and get all the right things?"

He hears the bigger question inside the small one. "I trust you to make your own decisions and have dinner ready early, so we can leave it out buffet style and gorge all day long."

She chuckles softly and rests her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest as they fall asleep together.

_Dites-vous que pour obtenir ce que vous voulez? a__re you saying that to get what you want?_

___C'est des conneries_! this is bullshit

_mon père_ my father

___Je suis raide_! I'm broke

___Tu es un radin_. you're a cheapskate

**_Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome._**


	12. epilogue

**_(Thanks to hilandmum for correcting my horribly inadequate French, it's much appreciated :D If you're not reading her excellent stories-_The Meaning of My Life, Three Amigos In Love_, and many more-you're missing out. _**

**_This is the last chapter of this story. If I have time, there might be a one-shot or two based in this AU, but this is it for the main story. Many thanks for all the wonderful reviews and follows/favorites, I'm deeply honored as always. -B)_**

_May27th_

Dana slowed the car and turned from the highway onto the one-lane access road. Next to her House stirred and woke from his doze. "We there yet?" He squinted out the window.

"Almost." She eased her speed a bit more, knowing from long experience the going was a little rougher from here on in. "Another half mile or so."

"When you said this was in the country you weren't kidding. We've been on the road for hours. It's a good thing I cleared my schedule for the next week." House sat up a bit and winced. He shifted his bad leg and rubbed his thigh. "I'm really looking forward to hiking over an entire football field of poison ivy and sumac to get to the front door, presuming it has one."

"One hour, and it does," Dana said mildly, hiding her amusement. "And as a point of fact, I was the one who cleared your schedule."

"I'm glad you think it's funny." The harsh tone revealed the extent of his anxiety. "I guess it never occurred to you that if something happens you'll be carrying me out of this jungle."

"Gregory, it's upper Bucks county, not the Amazon." She took the car around the bend and smiled. "Here we are."

She loved this part of the journey, as the house was revealed gradually. It was a fieldstone cottage, the walls braced and framed by heavy timbers, with a central front door, casement windows on either side and a chimney at one end. She had found it by accident and fallen in love at first sight, despite its derelict state. That love had overcome considerable obstacles, including a renovation which involved gutting the entire interior, putting in wiring, central heating and plumbing as well as a new slate roof, and extensive replanting of the grounds. The outside work she'd done herself, after the heavy clearing had been accomplished. She'd spent quite a few weekends painting, refinishing, sealing floors and planting, using a battered, leaky old camper she'd bought on craigslist as a temporary shelter, but her privations had paid off. Now she savored the beauty before her as she pulled the car up to the side, put it in park and shut off the motor.

"Welcome to my country place," she said, and leaned over to kiss Greg's cheek. He accepted it, his eyes on the scene in front of him. He said little as they got out, just surveyed the surroundings, his expression impassive as he shouldered his backpack and leaned on his cane. Dana got her duffel bag and came around to stand at his side. "Shall we?" she asked softly, and extracted the front door keys from her purse.

The house was quiet. Dust motes floated through the morning sunshine as she unlocked the door, gave it a little shove because it always stuck a bit when it hadn't been opened for a while, and entered. Greg followed, moving slowly. Dana dropped her bag by the couch and went into the kitchen. She knew it would be better to let him get used to the surroundings on his own terms, and in his own time. He disappeared as she brought the groceries in from the car.

She had just set out a pair of mugs when he came into the kitchen, his expression one of wary scrutiny. As she opened a bag of coffee he said "You bought this place with your father in mind."

Dana stuck the measuring scoop in the coffee. "Yes," she said.

"So it's set up for someone in the process of dying."

"No, he never stayed here. Neither has anyone else, just me."

Greg studied her. "Never," he said, sounding skeptical. Dana put the scoop down and turned to face him.

"_Mon père_ didn't care much for country living in the first place, but after he was diagnosed he was terrified of being without immediate access to a hospital." She looked around the kitchen at the painstaking work she'd put in, the soft natural colors she loved, the refinished, gleaming woodwork, the original wavy, bubbled panes of glass in the windows. "I tried to get him to visit, but he absolutely refused. It was foolish of me to expect him to come here when it was my dream to own this place, not his." She ran her hand along the edge of the stone sink. "Anyway, it's mine. And now it's yours too, if you like. But it's not set up to coddle you, you have my promise."

Without a word he disappeared, limping out of the kitchen. Dana heard him move slowly through the main room; a moment later the bathroom door opened and shut. She returned to making coffee, trying hard not to give in to the anxiousness she felt.

A short time later Greg returned. He stood in the doorway, watching her. She put some croissants on a plate along with strawberry jam. "Have a seat," she said. He came into the room, sat down at the table, his gaze still on her.

"You're seriously saying you haven't brought anyone else here, even though you have that ginormous bed in the master bedroom."

Dana removed the coffee carafe, filled with fresh brew. "No, I haven't."

He didn't speak right away. "No cable or internet, I take it."

"Yes, there's cable and internet. And a working landline because reception can be iffy in bad weather," she said in mild exasperation. "Sometimes I spend a few days or a long holiday weekend here, as we're doing now. It's not convenient or private to go into the village and do all my work in a café just because it has wi-fi. And I do watch tv now and then, you know." She didn't mention the exorbitant price she'd paid to get the cable and wiring put in from the highway back to her property. "I just don't come here to sit in front of a computer or watch tv."

"You wanna get away from it all." Greg pushed his mug toward her. Dana filled it and gave it back to him, poured some coffee for herself and sat down.

"I come here to be me," she said simply. Greg added a heaping teaspoon of sugar to his mug and stirred.

"Why don't you get rid of the house in town then?"

Dana put some table cream in her coffee. "Because this place is special," she said slowly, trying to explain. "Making this my permanent address would turn it into . . . part of my everyday life. This place . . ." She looked around the kitchen, at the sunshine slanting in through the windows, catching the sparkle of the glass ornaments she'd bought in Stockholm on a tour years ago. "In my work I have to set myself aside to listen carefully, or be someone I'm not to help others heal. I don't mind, but sometimes it makes me feel a little lost at the end of the day. Here, I can just be me." She smiled. "Like I am with you." Greg observed her, his gaze searching, intense.

"'kay," he said finally, and gave a single brief nod.

After that he seemed to relax a bit. He drank the excellent coffee and ate two croissants slathered with jam, then stumped off once more. Dana got up to finish putting the groceries away. She was nearly done when Greg came back. He wore a clean tee shirt, jeans and . . . flipflops. Dana gave him a startled glance. He offered her a sunny smile full of challenge. She put the last of the meat—a whole chicken to be roasted later—in the refrigerator, closed the door and leaned against it, arms folded.

"Interesting footwear. Care to join me out back?" she said mildly.

In the warmer months, the screened porch was her favorite room in the entire house. She'd worked long and hard to make it a natural extension of the living space, one that moved it into nature while protecting the occupants. The result had exceeded her expectations. The warm air was already full of fragrance from the flowers and herbs planted close to the foundation, something she'd done deliberately; the stones soaked up heat from the rising sun and held it throughout the day, creating a micro-climate of warmth that encouraged early growth and flowering. Wicker chairs with thick cushions offered comfortable seats; an easy-to-clean sea grass mat covered the stone floor, and standing lamps provided pools of light in the evenings. But it was the view she loved most. The cottage sat at the top of a long, sloping meadow, with pastures and stands of trees beyond. Above them rose low hills, dusky green in the bright sun. She never tired of watching the day move across this quiet landscape.

With a slight groan Greg settled into the chair next to hers. He stretched out his long legs slow and careful, then folded his hands across his belly and stared at the scenery. "Nice view," he said.

""Yes, it is." Dana set her coffee cup on the table between them.

"Nice porch."

"Thanks."

They sat in silence for about thirty seconds. Then Greg heaved himself out of the chair, grabbed his cane and limped into the living room. A few moments later Dana heard the tv come to life. She rolled her eyes but couldn't help a smile.

The day progressed in relative peace. Greg took a long nap on the couch with the tv tuned to a baseball game. Dana roasted the chicken and made oven fries, as well as a salad. She chose a fine dry Riesling to go with supper—hers anyway, since Greg would probably have beer.

He came in as she was taking the chicken from the oven. As she'd suspected, he snagged a beer from the fridge. Soon enough they sat at the table. Dana had taken the precaution of putting on music—Ma Rainey and Bessie Smith—but apparently it wasn't enough to break the silence.

"Too damn quiet," Greg said under his breath, taking a large piece of breast. "I'd forgotten what it's like in the sticks."

Dana sipped her wine. "If it really bothers you, you can go back to Princeton and pick me up later in the week," she said. Greg paused with his fork stuck in a wad of oven fries.

"You want me to leave already."

"No, I don't want you to leave. But I also don't want you to stay just because . . . This-this is supposed to be enjoyable for both of us . . ." She paused. "Did I presume too much again?" She hated how uncertain she sounded. "I'm sorry—I thought . . ."

"Gardener." He waited until she looked up. "I'll get used to it. Eat your damn rabbit food." He stuffed the fries into his mouth, chewed, swallowed and drank some beer. Dana put down her glass, her appetite fled. Quietly she got to her feet and left the kitchen, to go out on the porch. The sun had started to set, throwing long shadows over the meadow. She put her hand on the doorframe, felt the old wall of the house under the thick plaster, cool and strong, and bowed her head. _Maybe I shouldn't share this with anyone_, she thought. _Maybe it's better just being my place. I'm used to the silence, even like it, but most people have good reasons to find this unappealing, boring . . . _

A short time later she heard Greg come up behind her. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. They stood together for a few moments.

"When I was little, we lived in a beautiful house in Paris," Dana said after a time. "I loved it there. It was very old, and it showed all the centuries of people living in it, but in a good way. It always felt warm and peaceful. And then _Maman_ got sick and died, and _mon père_ sold the house without a second thought." She shivered a little. "Just sold it, and we moved away. For a long time my heart ached for our old home. Years later I tried to buy it, but it had been demolished for some reason, a fire, I think. And I realized I'd have to—to make my own place." She drew in a deep, slow breath. "When this house was being renovated, I understood finally that my childhood home still existed, just inside me. And I could take it to anyplace I wanted. So this house is what I chose. If you—" She hesitated. "If it makes you uncomfortable . . ."

Greg gave her a gentle squeeze. "Your dinner's getting cold," he said quietly.

They were sitting on the couch watching highlights from that day's baseball game, enjoying strawberry shortcake made with the first berries of the season, when Greg said "Stop worrying about whether I like it here or not. You said there was no coddling. I'll let you know if there's a problem."

Dana ate a bite of shortcake. "_Do_ you? Like it, I mean?" She knew it was wrong to push, but she had to know. Greg sighed.

"It's very much yours," he said. She heard the vulnerability under the criticism.

"There's a small spare bedroom," she said. "If you would like an office or a study or a—what d'you call it—"

"Man cave," he supplied. One corner of his mouth twitched up in a slight half-smile.

"Yes, that—it's yours."

Greg ran a finger around the edge of his bowl to get the last of the whipped cream. "What's upstairs?"

"It's a loft. I use it as an office sometimes."

"That leaves no place for visitors." He set the bowl aside and dipped his spoon into her half-eaten portion. Dana moved it closer to give him better access.

"I sort of decided . . . not to ever have visitors here," she said softly. Greg fished out a large strawberry and popped it into his mouth. He watched her, chewing slowly. She could see the thoughts flitting through that clever mind, the quick realization of what she was saying, the comparison with what she'd said earlier.

"Study," he said at last. Dana nodded.

"Okay."

She washed up the dishes while he went around turning off lights. "That can wait till tomorrow," he said.

"It's not a good idea to leave food or dirty dishes out." Dana put a bowl in the rack and gave in to the desire to tease. "We get bears here, you know."

Greg stopped in the act of shutting off the pull-down lamp over the table. "You're full of it."

"No, it's the truth."

He glanced at the dark window. "_Bears_. Holy _shit_, Gardener."

Dana chuckled. "I'm headed for bed. Care to join me?"

She knew he would like the bed at least. It was a large four-poster; the mattress was new, not too firm, and there were plenty of pillows. She'd put a carafe of water and a croissant on a small plate on the nightstand where Greg had deposited his meds. He emerged from the bathroom and limped to the bed. He paused, picked up the croissant.

"Great, lead the bears here first," he said.

"I'm not worried. The food's on your side of the bed," Dana said, and laughed when the croissant landed in her lap.

She fell asleep cuddled against Greg as he sat reading, propped with the majority of pillows. At one point in the night she felt him get up. He was gone for some time, but when he came back he settled in beside her and eventually slipped into sleep. She did too, worried and relieved at the same time.

Over a late and leisurely lie-in the next morning Greg said "I want a piano." He sounded defensive, and he watched her carefully.

Dana stretched a little. "Okay," she said. It was something she'd considered before herself.

"It would have to be electronic. Too many temperature changes for an upright."

She nodded. "Would you like to get one today?"

Greg turned on his side a bit to face her. "The whole point of being here is to get away from big bad civilization."

Dana put her hand to his cheek. "We are allowed to venture into town," she said wryly, and raised her brows. "Up for a short road trip?"

She took him to a little place in Buckingham, a store with everything from a Steinway baby grand to child-size keyboards. The salesman steered them toward a Casio digital with pedals and recording capability. "The action is pretty decent," he told them as Greg tried a bluesy riff. "It's not a grand, but it sounds great."

They returned home with the piano, an adjustable bench seat, and takeout from the Thai place next to the store. While Dana got the food ready Greg put the instrument together, a fairly simple operation. She was taking down plates when music filled the house, sweet, a little sad, utterly beautiful; it was the Chopin waltz she'd played months ago in his apartment. Dana stood listening, enthralled. Slowly she set down the plates and went to the doorway to find Greg seated at the piano, head bowed as his fingers moved over the keys. She watched him, the way he entered the music, made it his while allowing the phrases their expression, and knew without doubt her home—their home now—had been given a heart at long last. The knowledge brought tears to her eyes, but she just stood there listening, humbled by this immense gift.

At last the piece ended. Greg looked up at her, his gaze still a bit unfocused. Dana came into the room to stand by him. She leaned down, took his hand in hers, raised it to her lips, brushed a kiss over the backs of his fingers. He broke free gently and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

"Starving musician here," he said at last. Dana smiled.

"Everything's ready." She waited while he got to his feet, offered her arm as support. He eased into her hold without hesitation, and moved forward with her into the sunlit kitchen.

_**Many thanks for reading. If you're so inclined, a review would be most welcome.**_


End file.
